Cyberpsychic Bluestreak
by Oreobot
Summary: An Insecticon electro-bite leaves Bluestreak with mysterious powers.
1. Battle At Granite Creek Power Plant

**Cyberpsychic Bluestreak**

Bluestreak sat alone in the frigid cold. With his internal heaters fully energized to keep his circuits dry and his hydraulic fluids warm and flowing smoothly, he sat for many long hours on guard duty outside Autobot Headquarters. Now, it was getting late and the somber, winter sky was beginning to darken the lightly snow-dusted rocky landscape. A gust of wind tossed fresh powder from nearby boulders at Bluestreak, and the silver gunner winced at the sudden assault of fine snow.

A commercial buzzed on his internal radio. "Try Softie paper towels. You'll be glad you did." A trite jingle signaled the end of the ad.

"Paper towels, sub sandwiches, energy drinks… What would _I_ do with any of those things?" Bluestreak mused aloud. "Well, I could do with an energy drink, but not that Enermax stuff." He chuckled, and then mimicked the charismatic tone of a radio announcer, with his hand up and holding a make-belief beverage can. "Energon is my drink of choice. You just can't beat the high octane charge of every Autobot's favorite fuel." Bluestreak smiled, pleased with his impression.

"And we're back with another of your favorite hot hits, here on WKRG in Wenatchee," the program announcer said as he returned after the end of the commercial break.

Bluestreak sighed with resignation. The songs had been interesting at the beginning of his shift, but discerning comprehensible lyrics from the barrage of musical noise was futile. The silver Autobot yearned for something more interesting to hold his waning attention. He wondered how human beings could stand the boredom of the monotonous tones and chords. They went on and on and the words made no sense at all.

He dialed through a range of radio frequencies and found an all-news station. "…and that's the question on everyone's mind. Will Bud Johnson make it to the playoffs?" the sports announcer asked.

Bluestreak gazed across the valley from his remote post, toward the source of the signal. Far away to the southeast, behind the mountains surrounding their base, the Autobot listened to the comforting chatter of the sports announcer.

Bluestreak waited for the answer, but the announcer continued on with his opinion piece without answering the question. "Well, will he make it?" Bluestreak asked aloud with interest. The radio signal relayed directly to his audio receptors, so his words sounded to no one.

"If the Eagles win tomorrow night's game in Atlanta, he'll have just two weeks to get back on the field. Otherwise, there's little chance that the team will-"

"This Bud guy must be someone important," Bluestreak interjected. "If he's not going to play, why don't they just get someone else? This guy might let the whole team down."

Bluestreak listened obliquely to the sportscaster prattle on about statistics and players, not knowing what or who exactly was being discussed. He was glad when the sportscast ended.

"And now over to Dean Dover for your weather," came the announcement.

"Well, it's that time of year again to get your snow shovels ready because we've got snow in the forecast for the weekend," Dean Dover began amicably. "A low pressure front settling in over the Pacific Northwest, combined with that cold northern air that's been hanging over the region is going to bring anywhere from six to ten inches of snow, depending on where you are. Snow squalls will begin tonight in areas of Seattle right down through into Oregon, as well as east throughout Washington state."

Bluestreak glanced up at the darkening sky above. "Driving will be dangerous," he said to himself. "Good thing I got those snow tires installed. You never know when you'll hit black ice and go into a skid." He vividly imagined sliding uncontrollably across a slick road toward an oncoming tractor trailer, then laughed nervously as he tried to shake off the discomforting sensation. "I hope that no one gets into any accidents with anyone or animals, or anything like that. I'd hate to think of what that would do to-"

He could not help but imagine himself colliding with some poor, unfortunate human being standing out in the middle of nowhere on an icy road. Bluestreak's optics widened at the sickening thought and he tried to steer his mind from the inevitable conclusion. As a rush of energon quickened his fuel pump, he forced the imaginary image of himself off the road – and directly toward a cute, little bunny.

"_Aggh!_" Bluestreak yelped at the out-of-control fantasy. He blinked hard and chattered quickly to change the subject and erase the disastrous idea from his mind.

"What I mean is that… I like animals. Yeah, I like animals. They're good," he panted before slowly relaxing. "Yeah, they're good."

The radio droned softly in his audio receptors, which helped calm him down.

"Hey!" he interrupted his harried internal dialogue. "I could get an animal – like a pet or something – and take care of it. Okay, so maybe I don't know anything about taking care of something, but I could learn. Humans figure it out, so I can, too. But what kind of animal would I get?" he asked himself.

Bluestreak looked around his feet at the rocks as if some invisible species were there and he just had to find it.

"Some sort of wildlife – or a cat or dog – or what about a bird?" he questioned intensely as he looked off at some distant trees. "No, not a bird," he frowned and cast his optics down. "I couldn't keep something in a cage."

He remembered when the Autobots had caught Ravage, and how Hound held the Decepticon cat captive in a cage. "Well, maybe some animals belong in cages," he stated to himself. "But a Decepticon would make a lousy pet. It wouldn't fetch, wouldn't sit still or want to be stroked… or even go for a walk." He briefly wondered what kind of relationship Soundwave had with his cassetticons. Ravage, Laserbeak and Buzzsaw were all robotic animals.

The radio caught his attention again. Bluestreak had heard enough about weather, so he changed stations to see if something more interesting was being broadcast on a different frequency. The charismatic tone and melody of a new announcer's voice mesmerized Bluestreak as he smoothly rattled off facts about the music artists in the song lineup.

"This band first heard this song on a bus. Diane gave them a trial version and, when they popped the cassette into the vehicle's tape player, they couldn't wait to get home and record the song. When Starship's 'Nothing's Going To Stop Us' hit the charts it rocketed its way to number one. This is Casey Kasem and you're listening to America's Top Forty Countdown," the deejay announced as the song began.

"Hey, that guy's voice sounds like mine," Bluestreak noticed. It was an amusing coincidence. "Ha, ha, what are the chances of that?!"

"Hey, Bluestreak!" a familiar voice called from across the barren landscape outside the base.

Bluestreak turned to see Cliffjumper off in the distance. The red minibot's glowing blue optics blinked in the falling darkness. He had his hands cupped around his mouth to help his voice carry across the distance between them. "Don't get weird over there."

"What are you talking about?" Bluestreak called back, perplexed.

"You!" Cliffjumper called, exasperated. "You're talkin' to yourself!"

"Oh, that!" Bluestreak responded with a self-conscious chuckle. "I'm listening to the radio."

"The radio?" Cliffjumper responded with dismay. "You're supposed to be on guard duty! You can't be protecting the base when you're distracted by one of those mindless human noise channels!"

"But-" Bluestreak hoped to explain, disappointment in his vocalizer.

"Just be quiet for once!" Cliffjumper told the talkative gunner and then lowered his hands.

"-it's not a distraction," Bluestreak said quietly to himself.

Bluestreak picked up the silver beam rifle next to him and laid it across his lap. Feeling self-conscious, he turned down the volume of his internal radio, waiting until the song ended so that he could continue to listen to the radio announcer's soothing voice.

An idea came to him then and his expression lightened. "I wonder," he stated softly to himself, "if Teletraan I picked up on one of this radio announcer's broadcasts when it set my Earth voice modulation so that I could speak like this planet's natives."

He laughed nervously, conscious not to be loud enough to get Cliffjumper's attention. Smiling widely, he copied the velvety words of the announcer's broadcast. "You're listening to the American Top Forty Countdown with Autobot Bluestreak." He laughed at the sound of it. "Come to think of it," Bluestreak added, looking over at Cliffjumper, "he also sounds a little like that Casey Kasem guy."

As he mused over his discovery, thoroughly entertained, a timer in his forearm compartment beeped at him. "Shift's over," Bluestreak announced. He stood up and waved his arm through the air above him in a sweeping arc. "I'm headed in!" he called to Cliffjumper.

"Right," the minibot acknowledged. The minibot's blue optics briefly watched the gunner depart before turning away.

Bluestreak's gait developed a jovial bounce as he drew close to the lighted entranceway to the Ark. He subspaced his beam rifle and checked his chronometer.

"Good! My show isn't over yet."

He hurried down the causeway, up the elevator to A-deck and through the door to his personal quarters, like a kid rushing home from school. Bluestreak's fingers raced over the keys on a console and a large blue screen on his wall lighted up as he slouched down into his bunk to watch TV.

"Introducing a new dual-action cleaner-" a commercial began.

"Not another commercial," he groaned. "Why can't they just show a program without trying to sell me stuff?" Bluestreak muttered to himself. "I just want to see my show. I'm never going to buy some household cleaner, or a hamburger meal deal, or a new flavor of granola bar." He knitted his optic ridges as he waited for the commercial to end. "What is a granola bar, anyway?" According to TV, they were all the rage these days. They even came with chocolate chips in them – whatever those were.

Soon the image changed and Bluestreak grew quiet as he intently watched his favorite television program. The fat man in the blue shirt was making a new bamboo door for his grass hut. After a minute, he lifted it up and hung it in the door frame.

"There," he stood back and admired his handiwork. "Finally, a proper door. Now I can get some peace and quiet."

But no sooner had the door been hung than a persistent voice urgently called the first man's name. "Skipper! Skiiipperrr!"

"What is it this time, Gilligan?" Skipper snapped disdainfully as he proceeded toward his hut's new door. But he was met at the entrance by a large boar, which busted through the bamboo and charged into the hut with Gilligan in pursuit.

"Gilligan!" Skipper cried out. "What's going on?"

"Skipper, grab the boar!" Gilligan exclaimed as he chased the wild pig around the small hut.

Skipper was dismayed that his door was broken and that his hut was being turned into a pig pen, but he was hungrier than he was angry. He had already eaten a lifetime's worth of bananas and coconuts on the deserted island. "Oh boy! Pork chops!"

As the laugh track laughed in the background, Skipper and Gilligan chased the boar around the hut, bumping into each other, and then chased the fleeing animal out of the hut and into the surrounding jungle.

"Go get him, Gilligan," Bluestreak cheered on his human hero. He shifted to make himself more comfortable on the metal bunk.

The scene cut away to the professor, who was working on a new invention made out of the island's raw materials and whatever he could salvage from their ship's wreckage. The boar darted past the professor, with Gilligan and Skipper in hot pursuit.

"Quick, grab the pig, Wheeljack!" Bluestreak told the TV character before realizing his mistake. "I mean, Professor." He laughed at the comical scene.

The TV comedy always set him at ease about the Autobots' crash landing and subsequent stranding on planet Earth. He had seen every episode, and even enjoyed the re-runs. He had started watching it to see how they would get off the island. Would they build another boat or would they be rescued? But after a while, it didn't matter that the motley group of human beings remained stuck on the remote tropical island. Bluestreak enjoyed their amazing and humorous adventures together.

After his program ended, the evening news came on. Not one for listening to bad news, Bluestreak changed channels. Game shows were sometimes interesting, though the in-depth knowledge of human trivia and cultural knowledge they required boggled his Cybertronian mind. Serials were usually too serious, and occasionally, too violent for the Autobot gunner. So, as the evening wore on, Bluestreak checked the television guide and eventually settled on the evening science fiction movie.

The light from the screen flickered in the metallic surfaces of the room as Bluestreak read the movie's title, _The Brain Men from Gamma Centauri_, written across a starry night sky. It sounded tame enough, a typical B-rate science fiction movie. The effects in the old black and white ones were so terrible that they made the movies funny. Bluestreak rolled onto one side, leaning on an elbow, as the grainy movie began.

"Gamma Centauri," the narrator began melodramatically, "a planet just forty light years from Earth, and the home world of the Brain Men." The camera panned down from the sky to the planet below. The landscape looked like a collection of someone's neglected houseplants, a mess of oversized, wilted greenery. Cardboard models of futuristic buildings rose out of the dying "jungle".

Bluestreak laughed. "It doesn't get any cornier than this. That is so fake."

"After millennia of technological advancement and reaping of the planet's resources, the planet is in ecological peril," the narrator continued seriously. "Food is in short supply and civil war threatens the population."

_Sounds like the Decepticons are on Gamma Centauri_, Bluestreak blinked as he thought.

"With their habitat dying, the Brain Men have no choice but to look for another world to colonize." The narrator finished the explanation, and the scene cut to a laboratory.

"Brain Men?" Bluestreak asked skeptically when he saw the supposed aliens. "They look exactly like human beings, just dressed in different clothes. They don't even have big heads."

Scientists worked on machinery in the foreground, while workers in silvery suits packed crates and supplies onto a spaceship in the background. The scene reminded him of their flight from Cybertron, and captivated the Autobot's attention.

A tall brain man garbed in a silvery-green suit, tall, stiff collar, and long cape strode regally into the laboratory, using a diamond-appointed staff as a walking stick. Royal music played and the scientists stopped what they were doing, turned and bowed to their leader.

"Lord Xangzar," one of the scientists straightened after a deep bow. "Our preparations are nearly complete. Two thirds of the population has already boarded and your army stands ready, waiting for your command."

"Our conquest of the third planet from the star, Sol, will be swift," Lord Xangzar stated confidently.

"Conquest?" Bluestreak asked aloud incredulously. "There's no need for that. I'm sure human beings would let you live amongst them. You look exactly like them. Heck, they don't bother us Autobots, and we're robots."

"To the ships!" the alien dictator struck out his finger toward the awaiting fleet and ordered. The command sounded like it could have come from Megatron, and Bluestreak's joints tensed momentarily.

"It's just a movie," Bluestreak reminded himself. He watched the Brain Men's model rocket "spaceships" set off for the Earth, flames exhausting vertically from the horizontally oriented rockets suspended by visible strings. The Autobot chuckled. "These movie makers really have to work on their special effects. There's nothing special about these."

As the lead rocket hovered impossibly, and rotated upright for a vertical landing on the Earth near a major American city, the human military and news crews rushed forward to meet the arriving alien ships. The flanking rockets set down elsewhere throughout the landscape.

"Imagine that!" one of the waiting journalists reflected aloud. "Human beings making contact with aliens from another planet. What are the odds of that?"

"Very good," Bluestreak muttered at the TV. Of course, the Cybertronian knew, the universe was littered with other life forms. "This movie's dialog needs updating. We're already here."

"Hey," the reporter turned to a nearby military official as the army's tanks aimed their turrets at the landed rockets. "Isn't that going to send the wrong message?"

"We don't know what their intentions are." The stoic official glanced at the reporter and then focused his attention sternly back at the closest alien craft. "They brought an army of rockets. We brought an army of tanks."

Moments passed as the humans waited for a ramp or a door to open in the lead rocket. "What are the Brain Men waiting for?" Bluestreak wondered aloud. "Are they scared of those tanks?"

Vertical seams appeared along the length of the rocket, and the vehicle's silver exterior folded open like a blossoming flower. As the panels slowly peeled away, Lord Xangzar stood in front of a giant robot housed in the center of the ship.

Bluestreak laughed nervously. "Maybe not."

A devious smile crept across the alien leader's face and he tapped the base of his diamond-tipped scepter on the metallic floor of the rocket. The gem glowed from within, and the other rockets across the landscape unfolded to reveal similar robotic sentinels and alien figures standing in front of them.

The army colonel picked up a megaphone. "State your origin and business," his voice boomed.

Lord Xangzar raised his radiant scepter and jolts of energy leapt out of the bejeweled tip, reaching out in an electric matrix to the sentinels, igniting them with the spark of life. Their metallic joints creaked as the robots moved on their own.

"There is no way that could really happen," Bluestreak commented with certainty. "There's no such thing as a device that just brings machines to life like that. What a goofy idea!"

The colonel did not like the way that events were unfolding. "Fire a warning shot." He signaled to one of his men.

The soldier sighted up and fired a single shot. The bullet pinged harmlessly against the large leg of the sentinel standing behind Lord Xangzar.

The alien leader tensed reflexively and uttered a command in an alien tongue. In response, all of the sentinels raised their arms and gripped the sides of their heads.

"What on Earth are they doing?" Bluestreak puzzled.

The invading robots lifted in unison. With a chorus of clicks, their heads came free of their bodies. Bluestreak grimaced with mounting unease. But there were no dangling cables, sparking wires or dripping hose lines hanging from the necks of the decapitated giant robots. The sentinels leaned forward, setting their heads down beside the waiting aliens.

A compartment in the forehead of each head popped open. Lord Xangzar lifted himself up and climbed inside. The robot's head was a piloting capsule, complete with a cushioned chair, levers and panels covered in switches and flashing lights.

"That's disgusting," Bluestreak muttered.

"State your name and intentions at once!" the colonel boomed again over the megaphone. "This is your last chance!"

Bluestreak watched, frozen with horror, as the other aliens jumped into the piloting capsules of the other sentinels. It was the most repugnant thing he had ever seen.

"Those robots took their heads off," Bluestreak said to himself, "so that aliens could get inside them."

The lead sentinel lifted its head, with Lord Xangzar, in it back onto its body. The camera cut to the sentinel's face, with the alien dictator glaring out menacingly through its dull optics at the human beings.

"No, no," Bluestreak shook his head emphatically. "That can't happen. No one can take your head and control you. "

"Open fire!" the colonel barked. The tanks opened fire on the sentinels, each now piloted by a Brain Man.

"_Kill it!_" Bluestreak grimaced as he sat upright on his bunk.

A barrage of shells burst against the metallic alien army and they were shrouded in a blanket of dark smoke.

"We got them, men," the colonel summarized. Then they heard pistons stroking and a moment later, the sentinels strode out of the haze, untouched.

"_What?_" Bluestreak gasped in unison with the army colonel. "That should have destroyed them!"

Gunfire erupted at the advancing alien army, but the bullets deflected off an invisible force field surrounding each metal warrior.

Inside his sentinel's head, Lord Xangzar issued a command to his army. "Eradicate these parasites!"

Bluestreak's mouth hung open in disbelief. "They're going to destroy the human race."

Cannons rose out of the forearms of the giant robots and the rat-a-tat of return fire strafed the throng of news reporters, sending the rest of the gawking ones fleeing for their lives. Bluestreak had seen enough and, in a panic, he jumped up, his fingers fumbling over the console keys to change the channel. He glanced up as one of the robot's feet closed down on a cowering human, and then the image on the screen changed. A large finger poked the midsection of a cartoon baker boy and the character laughed.

"_Phew!_" Bluestreak sighed and sunk back, relieved. The banal commercial rambled on. "I can't believe they said that was a science fiction movie. It was horror." He focused on the harmless, white baker boy.

"_Ooh-ah-oh_," the commercial sang, "oven-fresh dough."

It was another commercial about something he could not relate to. Bluestreak shook his head. "That's enough TV for tonight." He turned the monitor off and the lights up. "No alien is getting into my head."

He got up and checked the lock on his door and then took his beam rifle out of subspace. As Bluestreak crawled back onto the orange-gold bunk, he lay on one side so that he could watch the door. With his beam rifle tucked next to him and his finger on the frame near the trigger, the Autobot tried to power down for the night. But the awful images of robots removing their heads so that aliens could control them electrified his circuits and kept him alert.

It took several hours for Bluestreak to relax enough for his shutdown relays to activate his recharge sequence. Eventually, the Autobot's optic covers slowly slipped closed and his servos de-energized as he finally powered down for the night.

It was morning and the lights were still on when Bluestreak powered back up. As soon as the gunner realized he was back online, he grabbed his beam rifle and bolted upright. The end of the rifle darted around the room as he checked that it was secure.

"No aliens here," he reassured himself. He then felt his faceplate. "And I'm still me."

With a harried expression, Bluestreak looked back toward his room door, the image of the robot lifting its head, with Lord Xangzar in it, onto its body firmly in his mind. "What if aliens like that come to Earth," he whispered to himself, "and they discover us. They'd want to take over our bodies and drive us like in the movie." He imagined an evil army of zombie Autobots, controlled by the TV aliens, shambling into a city with their arms raised out in front of them. "No one's taking my head, or any of my friends'," he added worriedly.

An internal indicator nagged at his attention, informing the Autobot that his fuel tank was getting low. He needed to go down to the lounge to get some energon, which meant leaving the safety of his room.

"I should never have watched that movie," he said softly to himself and raised his weapon as he approached the door. He placed his hand over the lock and paused. "Okay," he coached himself, blinking, "I'm ready."

The door quietly slid open. Bluestreak stiffened then peeked around the frame to one side and then the other. "No aliens. All clear."

The sound of someone down the hall and around the corner echoed softly. Bluestreak lowered his beam rifle, but still gripped it firmly as he followed the sounds on his way to the elevator down to B-deck.

"Everything sounds normal," he said to himself as he got to the elevator and the doors opened. Bluestreak stepped inside and the doors closed. "But how would I know if someone had been taken over?" He thought for a moment. "Oh, I know. Ask them something that only they would know," the talkative Autobot mused to himself. "That's how."

The elevator floor display read "B-deck" and the doors opened. "Or have a coded question, like something that everyone would know the answer to. Something like…" he rolled his optics up at the ceiling, thinking, as he walked toward the lounge.

"Bluestreak!" Jazz's voice interrupted his monologue.

Bluestreak started with a jolt. He had become so wrapped up in his own conversation that he was not paying attention to the approaching black and white Autobot.

"Your gun's drawn," Jazz stated.

Bluestreak glanced down at the weapon. "Oh yeah, right," he excused himself awkwardly. Then he realized he should check to make sure that Jazz was still Jazz, and not a piloted zombie. "Wait!"

Jazz straightened, curious.

"I've gotta ask you a question," Bluestreak said, searching for some trivia that only the Earth culture-loving Autobot would know the answer to. As soon as an idea came to mind, a rapid succession of words flowed from Bluestreak's vocalizer. "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?"

There was a long pause and then Jazz chuckled. "You serious, man?"

Bluestreak shrugged. He did not know the answer himself. "You're right. That's a stupid question. I'll have to think of a better one."

"C'mon," Jazz ushered Bluestreak and pushed the end of the rifle down with his hand. "You headed to the lounge?"

Bluestreak nodded.

"Me too," Jazz grinned amicably. "Let's go. Oh, and it's safe to put the gun away. Everything's cool."

Calmed by Jazz's relaxed demeanor, Bluestreak subspaced the weapon. The two walked into the Ark's lounge, where other Autobots were refueling and relaxing.

"Why do you need to know the answer to a crazy question like that, anyhow?" Jazz inquired as he picked up a cup near the dispenser and filled it with a stream of glowing pink energy plasma from the machine.

"Well," Bluestreak began uncomfortably, "I was just thinking 'How do you know if Jazz is Jazz today' or," he glanced over at Trailbreaker nearby, "if Trailbreaker is who you think he should be."

The corner of Jazz's mouth curled with amusement and bewilderment.

Interested by the mention of his name, the seated large, black Autobot truck interjected. "Who else would I be?" he shrugged.

"That's not what I mean," Bluestreak explained to Trailbreaker. "Look, what if someone was making you do and say things that you wouldn't normally do, like… play basketball or something?" He looked back at Jazz. "Or Jazz. What if you suddenly took up off-roading? It could be anything unusual, but it would be something that you wouldn't normally do, something that might give away that you weren't yourself."

"And why would this be happening?" Jazz asked to clarify.

"Because," Bluestreak explained slowly, "someone else wouldn't know who you were supposed to be and what you did or didn't like to do… normally."

Jazz and Trailbreaker looked at one another, perplexed.

"I'm not getting it," Trailbreaker stated.

"Me neither," Jazz responded, confused. "What does this have to do with a woodchuck?"

"Nothing!" Bluestreak admitted with exasperation.

"Now I'm really confused," Trailbreaker said, shaking his head. The conversation had lost his interest.

Bluestreak continued to explain to Jazz as Trailbreaker got up to leave. "It was just a question that only you would know the answer to. That way, if you answered it incorrectly, I'd know that something was wrong with you."

Jazz stopped and tilted his head. "Have you been talkin' to Red Alert lately?"

"I'm not paranoid!" Bluestreak exclaimed with certainty. "I'm just checking to make sure that there aren't aliens among us."

A wry smile wrapped across Jazz's face plate. He handed the cup of energon to Bluestreak. "Here. You need this more than I do."

Bluestreak took the cup from Jazz. Before he could argue or explain further, Jazz turned away and poured a new cup for himself, then took a sip.

"That's another way that I know you're the same you that you should be," Bluestreak pointed at Jazz's cup of energon. "Because if you weren't really Jazz, you wouldn't be drinking that energon." He laughed with anxiety in his vocalizer. There was no way an alien pilot would pour fuel into the head of the robot he was piloting. "So, since you're drinking energon, I don't need to ask you a question at all."

Jazz lifted his cup in a toasting gesture. "Sounds good to me."

Bluestreak glanced down into his own cup and then fuelled up.

* * *

In the large, golden-orange battle room of Autobot headquarters, the Autobot leader, Optimus Prime, took an emergency call on the Ark's computer. Prime silenced the call beacon on the expansive computer console and the image of a seasoned power plant manager flashed onto the main screen of Teletraan I.

"Hello," the plant manager tested his connection to the Autobots.

"This is Optimus Prime," the Autobot leader responded firmly. "Go ahead."

"Yes, well," the brown-haired man began, "I'm Edward Geddes, manager of the Granite Creek power plant over here in eastern Washington. We've got some trouble on our hands."

"What seems to be the problem?" Optimus Prime asked.

"Some rather large robotic insects have moved in and made a home on our power transformers," Mr. Geddes explained. He pressed a button on a remote he was holding and the image cut to security camera footage of three Insecticons nesting in the station's electrical switchgear. The black and purple Decepticon stag beetle, boll weevil and grasshopper paid no attention to the camera filming them.

A moment later, the image on Teletraan's screen returned to that of the plant manager. "I would have thought that the current from the high sides of the transformers would have zapped them, but instead they're drawing all of the power we're generating." The image reverted back to the concerned plant manager. "We shut the plant down, hoping that they'd leave, but they're not going. Understandably, we can't keep the power shut off forever. We need your help."

"Those are Insecticons you have at your plant," Optimus Prime informed him. "They are Decepticons that feed off of pure energy, in this case, the electrical power you've been generating. My bet is that they figure it's only a matter of time until you turn the generators back on. The Autobots will assist you with your Insecticon problem, but you need to keep the generators off until we arrive."

"When will that be?" Mr. Geddes asked worriedly. I've got a bunch of customers freezing in Walla Walla. Those people need our electricity and my company's not making any money with these units shut off. My neck is going to be on the line if this problem isn't fixed soon."

"Do not worry, Mr. Geddes," Optimus Prime reassured him. "We are on our way."

The plant manager nodded and then the communication channel closed. Optimus Prime tapped the keys on Teletraan I's console as he spoke to the Ark's main computer. "Teletraan I," he instructed the computer in a commanding tone, "assemble all available Autobots, here, on the double."

Teletraan I immediately alerted all Autobots not on assignment or duty to assemble in the battle room. Within minutes, a team fell in line in front of the waiting Autobot leader. There was Ratchet, the boxy red and white chief medical officer, Wheeljack, the Autobot's mechanical engineer, Jazz, cool saboteur and Autobot lieutenant, Trailbreaker, the defensive strategist, the gunner and sureshot, Bluestreak, Gears, and espionage agent, Bumblebee.

Optimus Prime addressed them with urgency in his vocalizer. "The Insecticons have moved into the Granite Creek hydroelectric plant," he announced, keying in a sequence to call up a map on Teletraan I's large screen. "The plant is here, in southeastern Washington state. The Insecticons are sapping the plant of power, forcing the company to shut off its generating units and strand thousands of people in the cold without electricity. We are going to the plant to rid it of its Decepticon problem and help return power to the people."

"But with all the snow that fell overnight, it'll take forever to get there," Gears frowned. "That area is remote. I bet the roads aren't even plowed."

"Those are the perfect conditions to test out the new plow attachments I designed for Optimus," Wheeljack announced.

The others turned to look at Wheeljack and then the Autobot leader with surprise. This was indeed a new development.

"Affirmative," Optimus Prime confirmed. He held out his arms in front of him, preparing to transform. As he did, subspace compartments opened in the side sections of his forearms, and silvery mechanisms, each attached to half of an arced plow, unfolded. As soon as the mechanisms fully deployed, the Autobot leader transformed. His head descended and his shoulders rotated back and arms folded into the sides of his torso to form the front of his semi-cab alternate mode. Prime's legs bent at the knees and lowered his changing body onto the cab front wheels as his blue legs transformed into the back of the vehicle. At last, the two halves of Wheeljack's invention joined together in front of the rig, forming a rugged snowplow attachment for the red semi cab.

Bumblebee chuckled. "Well, get a load of that," he reflected, "we've got our own personal snow plowing service."

Ratchet kneaded his chin and sighed. "That's going to put all kinds of strain on his mechanisms," the chief medical officer stated, looking over at Wheeljack, "strain that Optimus wasn't designed to endure."

"Nonsense," Wheeljack retorted confidently. "You tellin' me that the great leader of the Autobots, the guy who can take on Megatron single-handedly, the guy who gets bored if he takes on less than four Decepticons at a time, can't handle a little snow shovellin'?"

Ratchet grumbled. "You should have asked me for input on this."

"You're just upset because it's a great idea and you didn't think of it," Wheeljack stated proudly.

"It's reckless," Ratchet argued, deflating Wheeljack's claim, "to design something without considering how it's going to affect him."

"Reckless is starting a shift with an overcharge hangover," Wheeljack retorted.

"Whoa. Low blow, man," Jazz said.

"I don't… I don't do that!" Ratchet sputtered. Embarrassed, he glanced out of the corners of his optics at the Autobots looking at him. "Hey, wait a klik. This conversation isn't about me!"

"That's enough," Optimus Prime interjected to end the quarrel.

"Sure," Wheeljack said, getting the last word in. "I plated the scoop with a trilithium derivative. They double as shields to reflect laser blasts." The Autobot mechanical engineer crossed his arms.

"Ratchet? Wheeljack?" Optimus Prime addressed his chief medical officer and mechanical engineer. "I need your guarantees that this disagreement isn't going to get in the way of the mission."

Ratchet straightened. "Yes, of course," the boxy red and white medic stated evenly. "It's just a… professional difference of opinion."

"Right," Wheeljack affirmed. "Nothin' to worry about, Optimus."

"Well then, Autobots," Prime continued, satisfied that the argument had been put behind them, "transform and roll out!"

In sequence, the party transformed. Ratchet promptly converted to his alternate mode, an ambulance, followed by Wheeljack, who transformed into a white Lancia Stratos Turbo rally car. Jazz followed next, his transformation into a white Porsche 935 race car embellished with stylized moves. Finally, Trailbreaker, Gears, Bluestreak and Bumblebee transformed into their vehicle modes: a black Toyota Hilux truck, a blue and red Chevrolet S-10 truck, a black-hooded silver Fairlady-Z sports car and a yellow Volkswagen Bug.

The sounds of the Autobots' engines reverberated noisily off the metal walls of the battle room. A large section of panel on the wall opposite Teletraan I slid away to reveal a large passageway leading to the causeway out of their base. Optimus Prime led the convoy of Autobots toward the exit.

As the eight vehicles emerged from the protective overhang of the tail end of their wrecked ship, snowflakes fluttered down around them from the overcast sky. A layer of virgin snow carpeted the valley. Optimus Prime lowered his plow, and the fresh snow scooped smoothly to one side, clearing a path for the other Autobots to follow.

Bluestreak tenuously tested his steering on the plowed, rocky road. Traction was pretty good, he thought, considering that it was impossible to do a perfect job with a straight edge on a rocky, uneven surface. Still, he was careful and backed off his throttle to leave extra stopping distance between himself and Gears.

Bumblebee liked the snow. "It's definitely feelin' like Christmas," he said over his vehicle intercom as he turned on his windshield wipers. He knew all about the holiday, thanks to his human friend, Spike.

"I suppose that plow is a Christmas gift from Wheeljack to Prime, then," Trailbreaker joked.

Chuckles broadcast through the inter-vehicle intercoms.

"I suppose it is," Optimus Prime responded in his good-natured tone. "Thank you, Wheeljack."

"Speakin' of Christmas presents," Jazz chimed in, "If any of you are into celebratin' it, I'd dig a musical keyboard interface for my computer. Learnin' to play electric keyboard would be the cat's meow."

"That can be arranged," Wheeljack promptly responded, the indicator light on his vehicle dashboard flashing blue in synch with the Autobot's speech.

"Far out," Jazz responded cheerily.

A chorus of groans carried over the air waves.

"No," Ratchet countered. "Definitely not. If I have to listen to you play out of tune for hours and hours…"

"Why can't you learn to do something quiet, like grow houseplants?" Gears added.

"C'mon, guys," Jazz said. "That's what practice is for."

"Practice somewhere else," Gears stated grumpily. "I've got a buzz in my left audio receptor that's very sensitive to certain frequencies."

"I concur," Optimus Prime agreed. "No music practice inside the Ark." Prime had enough difficulty listening to 'music' that was perfected through practice. It grated his audio sensors.

"How 'bout I just turn down the volume," Jazz offered.

"Did I just hear Jazz say he'd _turn down_ the volume?" Gears added with mock jest. "Something must be wrong with both of my audio receptors."

"You did," Bumblebee responded, "and if there's something wrong with your audio receptors, then there's something wrong with mine, too."

"I get it. You guys just don't dig my tunes," Jazz said with a hint of amusement in his vocalizer. "Okay, so if rock 'n' roll ain't your thing, how about some ol' 'Blue Eyes' Frank Sinatra? His songs are real slow and mellow."

"Oh!" Bluestreak said over the radio. "I've seen him on TV. He's a singer."

"Don't tell me you're gonna learn to sing, too," Trailbreaker announced.

The others groaned in unison.

"Spare me, please," Gears requested, "and I'll take care of all the Insecticons myself."

Wheeljack chuckled. "Jazz… sing?"

"I'm kiddin', man," Jazz laughed.

"Well," Ratchet added, "good."

The conversation reassured Bluestreak that everyone was being themselves. The snow-covered world around him was serene and peaceful. The banter helped distract him from thoughts of the scary Brain Men from Gamma Centauri that haunted his processor.

A series of ideas as to how the alien take-over could happen had been plaguing him. The last terror to stick in his processor was the notion that an alien could get control of him while he was powered down. The Autobots were extremely lucky that aliens had not found them in stasis before Teletraan I reactivated them. If the Brain Men had found them first, they would have scooped out the contents of their heads and rebuilt the Autobots as mindless zombies to conquer the Earth. Or, if evil humans had found them, he thought, they might have done the same thing. _If humans get the technology some day, they might wage war on us for our bodies. _An image of a megalomaniacal human behind a zombie Ironhide's dull optics, controlling the deceased Autobot as he reached out for Bluestreak, sent him over the edge. Momentarily panicking, he hit his throttle and accelerated to within inches of hitting Gears' bumper.

"Hey, watch it, Bluestreak!" the Autobot ahead of him warned him. Bluestreak backed off.

"Sorry," Bluestreak apologized quickly. He had to shake off the disturbing ideas. "Think of something else," he said to himself. "Think of – Gilligan!"

The goofy grin of the gangly, red-shirted sailor set Bluestreak at ease.

The journey was long and the pace was slow, even when they hit the Interstate headed north. The pavement was wet and slick, slowing all vehicles down. Here, Optimus Prime's plow was not needed. The roadway was clear.

Contented by his musings about Gilligan on his tropical island, Bluestreak kept a watchful optic on the sides of the road for animals but, thankfully, saw none. They must have all been tucked safely in their burrows because it was cold.

He wondered if humans were the only animals that celebrated Christmas. In cartoons, animals did a lot of things that humans did. Alvin and his chipmunk brothers celebrated Christmas with Dave. Alvin played the harmonica, wore clothes, and had a singing job.

That brought Bluestreak back to the earlier conversation. _If Jazz learned to sing, I bet he could get a job_. The silver Autobot imagined hearing a song played and sung by Jazz on the radio. And then his mind completed the idea by adding himself as the DJ, introducing the song. He laughed to himself.

"Bluestreak!" Gears' voice suddenly caught Bluestreak's wandering attention, surprising him as the convoy exited the highway, heading east through Washington state. Bluestreak reflexively pounded on his brakes and, seconds later, skidding tires screeched and a Volkwagen Bug horn blasted at him from behind.

"Oh, sorry," Bluestreak apologized to Bumblebee and gave his engine some throttle, causing his back end to briefly start to spin around him before he could right his direction of travel. The momentary loss of control injected a surge of energon into his fuel pump, energizing his systems.

"What was that for?!" Bumblebee demanded as the minibot skidded sideways, barely missing Bluestreak.

"It was Gears," Bluestreak bashfully defended himself.

"What?" Gears asked incredulously as he scanned behind him to see what was going on. "I just said your name. You were busy talking to yourself and I was getting tired of listening to the drone."

"Was I?" Bluestreak asked. He did not even realize he was doing it.

Up ahead, Jazz caught wind of the trouble at the back end of the convoy. "Optimus, hold up. Something's going on back there," he radioed Prime.

The Autobot leader slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder, and the others followed. He scanned the line of vehicles behind him. "What's going on?"

"Bluestreak freaked out and nearly caused an accident!" Bumblebee reported, miffed that the silver Autobot had done something so absurd as to jam on his brakes in slippery conditions.

"Sorry, Prime," Bluestreak apologized and then began on a rambling monologue. "I was just looking out for animals that might want to cross the road and wondering if there are any animals that celebrate Christmas, other than humans – in particular, chipmunks – because some do-" he hadn't been able to say "on TV" before Jazz cut him off.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Jazz interrupted the chattering Autobot. "Chipmunks don't celebrate Christmas."

"How do you know?" Bluestreak asked him. "Haven't you seen them on TV?"

"What?" Jazz asked, incredulous. "There's a lot of crazy stuff on TV, but it ain't all real. Don't tell me you believe everything you see on the boob tube."

"Sure it's real," Bluestreak said.

"Look, I don't want to argue with you," Jazz continued, "but what about cartoons? Those ain't real."

"Those are just drawn to tell a story because there wasn't a TV camera there at the time," Bluestreak informed Jazz.

"Oh no," Trailbreaker muttered over his radio, "here we go again."

"Bluestreak!" Optimus Prime interrupted the bizarre conversation. "What's the problem?"

"Problem?" Bluestreak asked sheepishly. "No… no problem. I was just trying to explain to Jazz-"

"We can't afford a delay on account of your imagination. I want you to switch to the back of the line, behind Bumblebee," the Autobot leader instructed.

"O-okay, sure," Bluestreak agreed.

"Good call, Prime," Jazz reassured the Autobot leader.

Just then, a maroon sedan drove past the stopped convoy. Human heads turned inquisitively to see why so many vehicles were stopped by the side of the road. A young boy in the back seat pressed his mouth up against the window and blew air against the glass, puffing out his cheeks.

"That kid just pulled a face at us," Gears observed with disgust. "Is this one of the people that we're helping restore power to?"

Optimus Prime ignored the disgruntled comment. "Back on the road, Autobots," he commanded with authority and pulled back into the lane. It was near the middle of the day and he wanted to wrap up the business with the Insecticons and be back at the Ark before nightfall.

Bluestreak sat on the shoulder, watching the others depart before him through the snowflakes melting on his windshield. Finally, Bumblebee pulled out and passed him, and he fell into line at the rear.

As the eight Autobots headed into the state interior, the snow fell more thickly. Prime lowered his plow on the remote section of road to remove the accumulating snowfall. By the side of the road, the white stuff was thick, probably a foot or two, Bluestreak observed as they passed a large sign that read "Granite Creek Dam and Recreation Area, Five Miles".

"So, what's the plan when we get there, Prime?" Bluestreak heard Ratchet ask over his vehicle radio.

"As soon as we see the generating station in the distance, we stop," Optimus Prime told them all, "so that we maintain the element of surprise."

The lonely road twisted through the snow-laden evergreens. Up ahead, Optimus Prime spied a clearing in the trees and the power plant access road angling away from the main road. As they slowed, two figures emerged from behind a snow bank by the head of the access road and waved the Autobots down.

"Halt, Autobots!" Prime instructed them and they stopped just ahead of the two humans, out of the line of sight of the hydroelectric generating station. He transformed into robot mode. The plow attachment separated and each half folded back against the Autobot leader's forearms.

The convoy of vehicles transformed into their robot modes, much to the surprise of the two humans who had waved them down. Optimus Prime immediately recognized one of the humans as Edward Geddes, the plant manager who had called them on Teletraan I. Both looked cold as they stood by the side of the road in the falling snow.

"I'm so glad you're finally here," Mr. Geddes sighed with relief, "and, quite frankly, glad you made it safely in these conditions. Let me introduce you to my maintenance engineer, Christina Marinos."

She nodded, still in awe of the eight giant robots towering in front of them. Several of the Autobots greeted her in unison with a "Hi, Christine," to which she responded plainly, "Um, hi," and waved briefly before shoving her hands back into her pockets for warmth.

"So, where are the Insecticons?" Prime asked Mr. Geddes.

The plant manager pointed to an area out of sight behind the trees. "They're in the switch yard next to the plant, at the end of this road. I've got the plant shut down and the staff evacuated."

"Good," Optimus Prime stated and withdrew his ion rifle from subspace. The other Autobots followed his lead and drew their weapons as well.

"Please don't damage anything," Mr. Geddes requested with concern as he looked up at the imposing weapon gripped by the Autobot leader.

"We'll do our best to ensure that your plant is still functional," Prime said and then addressed his Autobots. "Follow me, and then fan out when we see them. Try to draw them away from the plant."

The plant manager and the maintenance engineer remained behind as the Autobots followed the access road on foot to the plant.

Christine turned to Edward. "Functional?" she asked.

"Yeah, I know," Mr. Geddes shrugged worriedly, "but what else can we do?"

The Autobots stealthily crept along the treeline toward the hydroelectric station with their weapons ready for battle. The office building and then the slate grey, larger power plant came into view, and Optimus Prime angled his hand back toward them, motioning for them to be careful. The others gathered next to Prime as he spied the Insecticons. Inside the fenced switchyard, the three were nestled amongst the aluminum supporting trusses and electrical gear atop the power transformers: the perfect place to sap the rich electrical current.

Bluestreak's optics popped wide when he saw Bombshell, Shrapnel and Kickback. "_Zoiks!_"

Several of his fellow Autobots turned to look at him with bewilderment.

"_Zoiks?_" Bumblebee inquired.

"Yeah," Bluestreak nodded. "It's from a cartoon. That's what this Shaggy guys says when the gang sees something scary, and the Insecticons are Decepticons, so they definitely qualify – and then he usually looks for food, like hamburgers or a _really_ big sandwich, or something like that with Scooby – he eats a lot – which is nothing like what I'd do, so you couldn't confuse me with Shaggy except that he sounds like-"

Just then Ratchet and Jazz reached out and covered the chatterbox's mouth with their hands.

"Put a lid on it," Jazz told him quietly.

"You'll give us away," Ratchet whispered.

"Bluestreak," Optimus Prime addressed him seriously, "this isn't a cartoon."

Electricity crackled in the distance, bright static arcing between the electrical structures and their metallic insect limbs, as the Insecticons turned and adjusted themselves to see what had caused the noises behind the nearby evergreen trees. Optimus Prime glanced around the edge of the trees to see what the Insecticons were doing and saw the three robotic bugs looking in his direction.

Through the snow flurry, they glimpsed a familiar silver-masked blue face peeking at them around the edge of the trees. The bright red torso was a dead giveaway as to who it was.

"What's this?" Kickback asked in his tinny voice, "We have guests for Christmas dinner?"

"Optimus Prime," Bombshell breathed with dismay.

"His table manners are terrible," Shrapnel added. "He doesn't share the spoils, he just wrecks the occasion, occasion."

"Too late!" Optimus Prime announced to the other Autobots. "We've been discovered!" He quickly divided up the party into teams. "Trailbreaker, Gears, Bumblebee!" he called the members by name. "You take Kickback. Wheeljack, Bluestreak, Ratchet! Shrapnel's yours. Jazz and I will take care of Bombshell. Get them away from the switchyard!"

The Autobots acknowledged their orders and sprung out of hiding and into action, quickly splitting up into three groups and rushing toward the switchyard and the Insecticons. Eight tracks of boxy footprints marked the Autobots' paths over the snow-covered pavement.

"More Autobots!" Bombshell exclaimed with dismay at the sight of all eight of them.

Kickback's yellow antennae flicked. "I hate it when guests show up unannounced," the robotic grasshopper stated.

"They're giving me an appetite for destruction, destruction," Shrapnel echoed.

As Ratchet raced toward the Insecticons, the chief medical officer hit a slippery patch and felt his feet come out from underneath him. "_Whoa!_ Watch out for-" Ratchet began to warn Wheeljack and Bluestreak before landing with a crash on his skidplate in the snow.

"Watch out for what?" Bluestreak turned his head and asked, just before he hit the same sheet of ice concealed by snow. The silver gunner slid and spun around as he desperately tried to catch his balance on the hidden ice, but lost control and ended up on his aft anyway.

Wheeljack was barely able to stop in time before slipping like the other two.

"Insecticons, attack the Autobots!" the boll weevil ordered his minions.

The enormous black and purple robotic stag beetle aimed the tips of his large, chrome mandibles at the one of the groups of Autobots and ignited a charge across them as he prepared to attack. "It's the giving season so I'm going to give you forty thousand volts," Shrapnel cackled. "I've got enough for everyone!" With that, he let loose a large electrical burst upon the group of Trailbreaker, Gears and Bumblebee.

As the red and white medic recovered from his fall, Ratchet saw the bright flash around the mandible tips. He tried to warn the other group of Autobots. "Trailbreaker! _Watch out!_"

Trailbreaker raised his force field around himself and the two minibots. The electrical burst scattered across its reflective surface and into the ground.

"Hah, it'll take more than that!" Trailbreaker announced as he lowered his shield.

"It's Kickback we want, so let's go get him!" Bumblebee exclaimed and transformed into vehicle mode. Bumblebee skidded to the left and right as he plowed uncontrollably through several inches of slippery snow. "Whoa! Maybe this wasn't such a good idea!"

Jazz sighted up to give Prime a hand with a few well-placed shots when he saw Bumblebee slide uncontrollably toward the guard rail above the river.

The black and white Autobot lowered his weapon and subspaced it, retracting his left hand to swap it for his winch and grappling hook attachment.

"Hold on, Bumblebee!" Jazz called out, the arm with the winch raised above his head. Jazz threw the grappling hook and line at Bumblebee as the little, yellow vehicle crashed through the guard rail.

Bumblebee hollered as he realized he was about to plummet into the frigid water below.

The grappling hook latched onto Bumblebee's bumper just as he disappeared from view. Suddenly, the line went taut and Jazz braced himself, holding the weight on the grapple end.

"This is the one that didn't get away," Jazz joked as he reeled in Bumblebee.

Jazz pulled the yellow Volkswagen Bug up and away from the edge. As soon as Bumblebee was out of danger, he transformed and unhooked the grapple from his bumper.

"I thought I was fish food for sure, Jazz," the yellow minibot said, glancing back at the broken guard rail. "Thanks."

Just then, Kickback leapt out of the switchyard, dislodged from his power transformer nest by the balance-disrupting emission from Wheeljack's shoulder-mounted gyro-inhibitor, and landed between Prime and Bumblebee and Jazz.

"Get him!" Bumblebee yelled as he grabbed his gun from subspace and fired at the grasshopper.

Bombshell surveyed the scene as Gears and Trailbreaker rushed over to join in the one-sided fight.

"Pin him!" Gears hollered at Trailbreaker. "Hold him down!"

"While Kickback distracts those Autobots, we will take care of these three," the boll weevil said and left the high energy side of the power transformer, climbing up onto the circuit breaker to get a better shot at Bluestreak, Ratchet and Wheeljack.

The giant stag beetle picked out the awkwardly coordinated chief medical officer for his next attack.

"There had to be slagging ice under the snow," Ratchet muttered to himself as he rubbed his dented skidplate.

Shrapnel laughed maniacally and let loose an electrical burst at Ratchet.

"Ratchet, get out of there!" Wheeljack hollered at his friend.

Ratchet rolled to one side, missing the full force of the jolt but still taking a nasty shock from the arcing electrical charge. Black streaks marked Ratchet's white contour where the hot electricity seared his paint job. A large patch of pavement was visible where the snow had evaporated.

"_Ooowww!_" Ratchet cried out in pain as he collapsed.

Bluestreak looked on, horrified to see Ratchet's burns.

"That's it," Wheeljack said with disgust. "You just picked on the wrong guy."

The engineer aimed his gyro-inhibitor at Shrapnel and fired a volley of disruptive waves at the Insecticon.

"_Ugh_," Shrapnel groaned, "getting electric reflux… doesn't feel good, feel good." The stag beetle's grip loosened on the power transformer and he dropped to the ground, where the Insecticon landed on his back, his robotic insect legs kicking feebly in the air.

Bombshell finally found the perfect spot and gasped when he looked down and saw Shrapnel upside-down on the ground as if he had been hit with bug spray.

"Can we shoot him now?" Bluestreak asked Wheeljack about Shrapnel. "He's on the ground."

"No, you still might hit that switchgear," Wheeljack answered, the lamps on either side of head flashing blue as he spoke.

Nearby, Ratchet made a noise.

Bluestreak started and turned to regard the fallen chief medical officer. "You're alive!" He gasped with relief.

"I'll be… fine," Ratchet groaned as he started to move. He knew that he could not afford to lay wounded out in the open on the battlefield.

High above the Autobots, Bombshell lined up the sights of his insect mandible gun barrel on Wheeljack. He wanted the Autobots to have a taste of that gyro-inhibitor themselves. "Let's even the odds of this fight," he said, preparing to fire one of his cerebro-shells at the mechanical engineer.

Wheeljack watched Shrapnel through the chain link fence regain his equilibrium and work on righting himself.

"How do we get them out of there if we can't fire on them?" Bluestreak asked Wheeljack, confused.

Wheeljack turned to look at Bluestreak just as a loud pop ricocheted through the air. An instant later, something pinged off his left lamp, deflected by the wing-like appendage jutting out from the side of his head. A ruined cerebro-shell rolled away along the ground.

"A cerebro-shell," Bluestreak breathed with dismay as he stared at the mind-control device. "One of those could turn an Autobot into a zombie."

The association between the subversive control of an Insecticon master and the conquering Brain Men from Gamma Centauri was not lost of Bluestreak. "I knew it! I knew that it could really happen! A cerebro-shell does the same thing as a pilot – except that Bombshell uses remote control to-" the gunner sputtered in a rapid monologue.

"C'mon!" Wheeljack grabbed Bluestreak, spinning him around by the arm and breaking him out of his trance-like state. He grabbed one of Ratchet's arms on the way.

"Help me get him up," Wheeljack instructed Bluestreak as a second cerebro-shell whistled through the air.

"_Bluestreak!_"

The sound of his name snapped Bluestreak back to attention. The two Autobots grabbed Ratchet and struggled back toward the protective cover of the powerhouse.

* * *

Some distance away, the Autobots holding Kickback down were suddenly thrown aside. Kickback leapt free, with Gears unwittingly riding on the grasshopper. Sitting behind Kickback's head, the red and blue minibot clenched the Insecticon's two yellow antennae.

"Stop!" Gears pleaded. "_Help!_"

Kickback flinched in pain as Gears' desperate grip crumpled the ends of his antennae. Every time the Insecticon landed, he kicked wildly, sending the bewildered Autobots scrambling in all directions.

"I'm getting whiplash!" Gears called loudly as the powerful kicks jolted his mechanisms.

Bumblebee threw himself at one of Kickback's legs, hoping to hold it down long enough to allow the other minibot to disembark from the rogue Insecticon. But he misjudged his strength; the grasshopper scarcely noticed the yellow burden clinging to his hind leg.

Jazz, Optimus Prime and Trailbreaker all tried to grab Kickback, but the grasshopper nimbly dodged each one of them as they slipped and slid in the snow.

"This is getting ridiculous," Trailbreaker grumbled aloud.

"…can't hang on!" Bumblebee cried as his grip loosened on the leg. He was suddenly catapulted loose and sailed through the air before skidding to a stop on his chestplate.

Optimus Prime looked over and saw Wheeljack and Bluestreak struggling to move Ratchet to safety, while Bombshell took shots at them from his perch. Down on the ground, Shrapnel had recovered from the destabilizing effect of Wheeljack's gyro-inhibitor and was gnawing through the chain link fence, eager to pursue the three fleeing Autobots.

"They need my help," Optimus Prime observed aloud. "Jazz!" he called to the black and white Autobot. "Stay here and help Gears. Ratchet is in trouble."

Jazz peered across the expansive site and glimpsed the stricken medic in the distance. "Gotcha!" he acknowledged the Autobot leader.

As Prime headed for the switchyard, Shrapnel tore away the fence posts and beetled toward Wheeljack, Bluestreak and Ratchet.

Hearing the fence destroyed behind them, the Autobots carrying Ratchet quickened their pace.

"You Autobots have gone far enough," Bombshell called from his perch atop the circuit breaker. The Insecticon had transformed and loaded a mortar into his head-mounted beetle mandible. He aimed ahead of the three Autobots and fired. The shell exploded violently on the ground in front of them, sending shrapnel and chunks of asphalt flying everywhere. The three Autobots were flung apart from one another by the intensity of the blast.

Bombshell laughed cruelly at the scattered Autobots as blackened ash fell out of the sky.

"Why don't you pick on a bigger target?" Optimus Prime's boom voiced from below the Insecticon.

"I'll just add you to the tally," Bombshell chuckled as he pointed his head cannon at Optimus Prime and launched another mortar. The shell rocketed toward Prime but the Autobot leader deftly spun away, narrowly avoiding the deadly bomb as it erupted in another scorching blast.

"You'll have to do better than that!" Prime called out to his foe.

Atop the switchyard equipment where he was safely out of reach of the Autobots, Bombshell was not about to come down and fight. On the ground, the small Insecticon was no match against the powerful Autobot leader.

"You'll have to make me!" Bombshell taunted in reply. The Insecticon repositioned himself to lob another shell toward Prime's new position.

"You leave me no choice," Optimus Prime said. Through the clearing smoke and vaporized snow, he tried to line up a precision shot at Bombshell between the trusses and electrical equipment. Gently falling snowflakes danced past the sight crosshairs. It was not a clear shot. He might hit the generating station equipment.

Bombshell fired again. Optimus Prime swiftly lowered his rifle and rolled away from the switchyard to avoid the ensuing blast. He ended in a crouch where he was lined up for a better shot at the Insecticon leader. Before Bombshell could take cover, Prime fired an ion stream and scored a hit on the Insecticon's shoulder. Bombshell shrieked as the wounded joint sparked and smoldered, but he fiercely held the high ground.

"Enough fun and games!" Bombshell called down to Optimus Prime. The wounded Insecticon pulled his gun from subspace and energized the weapon, but was momentarily distracted by Kickback's antics in the distance.

Optimus Prime was ready and pulled the trigger. An ion blast sizzled through the air and struck a string of electrical line insulators nearby, shattering them into brittle splinters. Prime's battle mask sagged at the sight of the exploding glass. It was an accident that he had missed Bombshell. He had to do better on his next shot.

"Are you afraid to damage the equipment?" Bombshell goaded him as he moved behind the circuit breaker for partial shelter. His arm was twitching below the damaged shoulder joint. "Go home now and no harm will come to it. We just want its energy."

"Forget it, Bombshell," Optimus Prime responded. "This power plant doesn't belong to you."

The stubborn Insecticon struggled to maintain his perch, but his arm was badly seized up. He subspaced his gun, keeping a wary eye on the Autobot leader. Optimus was crouched, rifle at the ready, steadily tracking him.

"_Scrap!_" the Insecticon cursed loudly. He reached around to get a better grip with his good arm, but his weight shifted and he slipped out into the open. His next curse was cut short by a direct hit from Prime's rifle. Sparks erupted from a gaping hole in his torso as his limp body plummeted to the ground.

Optimus Prime stood up and warily approached the switchyard. On the other side of the fence, the boll weevil Insecticon lay in a heap, his arm still feebly grabbing for a phantom handhold. His optics were glowing at half strength, but nobody was home. Bombshell was out of the fight.

As Prime turned back to assist the others, he gasped with dismay. In the distance, Shrapnel's chrome stag beetle mandibles buzzed to life as he electrified them for an attack. His capacitor quickly ramped up with forty thousand volts.

Laying sprawled in the snow, Wheeljack shook his head. "That was some blast… can't seem to move my legs."

Bluestreak pushed himself up onto his hands and glanced back to see Shrapnel charging his mandible electrodes. Not far away, Ratchet sat up, his back turned to the approaching Insecticon. The medic was clearly disoriented. It took a moment for the gunner to realize that Shrapnel was angling to zap Ratchet with another high voltage charge.

"Ratchet, look out!" Bluestreak called out.

Ratchet turned to look at the silver Autobot, a vacant expression on his faceplate.

"_Behind you!_" Bluestreak hollered at Ratchet, waving his arms.

The chief medical officer finally turned around as Shrapnel took aim. Frantic, Bluestreak scrambled to his feet and lunged toward Ratchet, losing his footing on the slippery surface.

"_Wh-whoa!_" Bluestreak yelled. His arms flailed as he careened past Ratchet and slid toward the menacing Insecticon.

Shrapnel's mandibles glowed, ready to deliver their forty thousand volt sting.

As Bluestreak collided with the Insecticon, Shrapnel reflexively closed his mandibles, clamping down across the silver Autobot's torso. The massive charge held in the electrodes instantly coursed through Bluestreak's body with a feverish electrical sting.

"_Aaa-ag-ggg-gghh-hhhh!_" Bluestreak screamed, the intermittent wail from his vocalizer broken apart by electrical disruption.

Ratchet looked on in horror as the brilliant flash of a massive electrical discharge illuminated the entire plant complex, casting hard shadows.

"Bluestreak!" Optimus Prime cried out, but he was too far away to help.

Bluestreak's servos recoiled, tensing his joints as the current lit up all his systems like a Christmas tree. The surge activated all of his lights at once. The car tail lights in his feet, the headlights in his chestplate and Bluestreak's optics burned intensely. The more fragile glass in the car lights cracked and burst apart from the fierce heat. The electrical charge raced through Bluestreak's body and dispersed through the smoldering asphalt under his feet.

The Insecticon finally let Bluestreak fall to the ground, smoking in the melted snow. The smell of sizzling oil wafted through the air.

Shrapnel chuckled. "Stick a fork in that Autobot. He's done, done."

"Why you _slagger!_" Ratchet scowled at Shrapnel. If there was one thing that motivated the temperamental chief medical officer past pain, it was anger. Before Shrapnel could recharge his mandibles for another stinging electrical bite, Ratchet was up and after the metal bug with his electro scalpel.

"I'll remove those stingers before you can say 'punchy energon snack.'"

Optimus Prime aimed his ion rifle at Shrapnel, taking care not to hit Ratchet. "Let me give you a hand."

Several ion bursts from the Autobot leader's weapon struck the robotic stag beetle, blasting open his carapace. Shrapnel transformed into robot mode and lay injured on the ground as Ratchet closed in on him.

"No more!" the wounded Insecticon pleaded with his arm outstretched, begging for mercy.

Ratchet was in no mood to grant mercy.

"The gloves are comin' off now," Wheeljack called out as he struggled to his feet. "You aren't gettin' away with fryin' one of my friends."

* * *

On the other side of the switchyard, Kickback was still bucking around. The frenzied Insecticon was unstoppable. Both Trailbreaker and Bumblebee had been thoroughly pummeled, but to no avail. Gears was still trapped atop the frantic metal grasshopper, clinging with all his might but too dazed to continue hollering. Jazz admired the minibot's tenacity, but did not envy the extensive recalibration he would have to endure later on.

"Time to wrap up this shindig," the Earth-cultured Autobot stated. Jazz faced the dodging Insecticon and deployed his mega speakers from the sides of his hip plates. "Get ready to face the music, Kickback," he said, and turned on his stereo and dazzling light show.

Loud rock music blared at the grasshopper. Multi-color lights strobed intensely in time with the music, blinding both Kickback and Gears. Trailbreaker and Bumblebee cringed, looking away from Jazz.

"That _noise!_" Trailbreaker stopped and tried to cover his audio receptors. Bumblebee covered his as well.

Distracted by the light and noise, Gears loosened his grip and Kickback finally shook the Autobot loose.

"_Ow!_" Gears complained as he landed hard on his aft. "Something's out of alignment for sure."

"That terrible sound…" the grasshopper said, his antennae flicking in annoyance, "…can't stand it."

Kickback leapt blindly away from the source of the broadcasting music and into the air.

Bumblebee's optics followed the fleeing Insecticon as he covered his audio receptors with his hands. "It's working!"

"Can you turn it off then?" Trailbreaker asked, afraid to look up for fear of being blinded.

"Not yet, man," Jazz answered triumphantly. "Gotta enlighten a couple of other Decepticons that have been buggin' me."

With Kickback gone, Jazz focused his solo rock concert on the Insecticons over by the switchyard. The sound waves carried across the snowy landscape, amplified by the canyon wall across the river from the power plant.

Wheeljack was holding Shrapnel down and Ratchet's laser scalpel was half way through the Insecticon's remaining chrome mandible when the noise and light distraction struck them. Overwhelmed, they were unable to finish their handiwork. Shrapnel transformed and wrestled himself free, grabbing his dismembered mandible as he fled skyward.

Underneath the switchyard equipment, Bombshell staggered to his feet. Precious energon trickled from the blast wound in his torso. Overcome by Jazz's disorienting performance, Bombshell took flight, wobbling through the air as he retreated.

"Show's over! The Insecticons have left the building!" Jazz announced and turned off the sound and light show. The snow fell silently as his stereo speakers collapsed back into his hip plates.

The other Autobots took their hands away from their audio receptors, straightened and surveyed the scene.

Gears rubbed his skidplate as he stood up. "It doesn't get any worse than this."

"Just thank your lucky stars that Jazz doesn't also sing," Trailbreaker reminded the malcontent minibot.

Gears groaned and shook his head.

Ratchet and Wheeljack hurried over to Bluestreak. Ratchet began to check his vital signs. Optimus Prime joined them, followed by the others. Bluestreak was offline. His optics were dim. A dark, runny fluid seeped out of his midsection.

"How is he?" Optimus Prime inquired.

"He's functional," Ratchet answered without turning away from his patient. "He'll need a full power system overhaul, at the very least – but it's hard to tell how bad it is without taking a look inside. We need to get him back to the base – _pronto_."

"His circuits are fried," Wheeljack explained.

"Then load him in my trailer. I'll transport him," Optimus Prime instructed. He transformed into semi mode and his trailer emerged from subspace, attached to the rig. The rear door lowered.

"You get his head and I'll get his legs," Wheeljack told Ratchet.

Together the engineer and medic carried Bluestreak's loose body to the trailer, carefully laying the injured Autobot within.

As Ratchet and Wheeljack closed Prime's trailer doors, the power plant manager and the maintenance engineer approached them.

"Good work getting rid of those Decepticons," Mr. Geddes thanked the Autobots.

"Yeah," Christine said enthusiastically. She smiled at Jazz. "That was pretty cool."

Jazz returned her smile. "Always a pleasure to lend a hand," he answered coolly. "But we've gotta split. One of our friends is hurt and needs repairs."

"Oh, I hope it's not too bad," she responded, concerned.

"We just don't know right now," Jazz stated.

"Sorry to leave in a hurry, Mr. Geddes," Optimus Prime excused the Autobots. "Your plant is safely back in your hands now."

"Thanks again," the plant manager grinned, resting his hands on his hips.

Optimus Prime paused as he remembered something. "And… uh… sorry about the insulators."

"The insulators?" asked Mr. Geddes as his expression went slack. He turned toward the switchyard.

"Autobots," Optimus Prime commanded in vehicle mode. "Transform and roll out."

The two humans watched in wonder as the bodies of the six robots shifted and changed until there were only vehicles in the yard with them.

Christine mouthed the word "wow" to Edward.

"That is amazing," Edward agreed.

Optimus Prime led the convoy away from the hydroelectric plant, up the access road and back onto the lonely strip of asphalt leading through the forested canyon. They headed for home.

At the generating station, the plant manager and the engineer walked back to the office building.

"Get the guys up here on the double," Mr. Geddes instructed the maintenance engineer. "I want the electricians to do a full inspection and repair of the equipment before I turn the units back on. Tell them the insulators are blown."

"Right away," Christine replied. "I'll give Stan and Rick a call."


	2. Cyberpsychic Bluetreak

Back at Autobot headquarters, Bluestreak lay offline on a table in medical bay while Ratchet and Wheeljack assessed the injured Autobot's condition. Sections of Bluestreak's housings lay nearby. Ratchet probed through the layers of insulating barriers around Bluestreak's power core while Wheeljack connected Bluestreak's central processor into one of the medical bay's diagnostic computers.

"His surge suppression buffers held together fairly well," Ratchet noted as he gingerly tested the integrity of the insulation. The boxy red and white Autobot carefully removed the compression plating holding the energy absorbers in place around Bluestreak's regulator. The delicate laminations lining the interior surface of the cylindrical component were singed and peeling away from its radial core. "But this doesn't look good. His regulator is finished."

Ratchet's frame rose and then sank as if the robot let out a sigh of air. Critical spare parts were in short supply and regulators were intricate components that were difficult to fabricate. It would take time to make a new one.

Wheeljack glanced at the diagnostic output on the computer screen, then down at Bluestreak's dull optics. "Well, that explains why his power is flowing at a trickle. There must not be very much conductive area left between the laminations and the core."

Ratchet straightened and shook his head. "This isn't a quick fix. There aren't any regulator spares."

Wheeljack turned away from Bluestreak and tapped a series of keys on the console next to the examination table. Technical information scrolled across the screen. "Let's just hope the rest of his system checks out. I'm just finishing up a full power system diagnostic."

The readout blinked on the screen when the computation was complete. "Huh," Wheeljack said pensively.

"What is it?" the chief medical officer asked.

"Funny," Wheeljack added as he scrutinized the program for more information. "There's some kind of anomaly in his aura field."

"So what does that mean?" Ratchet inquired. Stream of consciousness theory was not part of the medical officer's field of expertise.

"Aura field? That's the supra-neural energy pattern that regulates his conscious awareness." Wheeljack tapped the side of his helmet with an index finger. "That big jolt of electricity must have distorted it somehow."

"Oh", Ratchet replied, perplexed.

"To tell you the truth, I've never seen anything like this before," Wheeljack continued. "Could be nothing, but…"

The engineer and chief medical officer exchanged concerned glances.

"Can you fix it?" Ratchet asked.

"The aura field is not something you fix," Wheeljack answered matter-of-factly. "It's the manifestation of a 'bot's spark in his cerebral network."

"I'm a medic," grumbled Ratchet, "not a philosopher."

"It's just a way of understanding our personalities – theoretically, that is," Wheeljack explained. "We should get him online and monitor his behavior."

"Well, in that case," Ratchet said, "let's put him back together."

Ratchet set about gathering the equipment they would need to run a temporary power supply for Bluestreak. It would take time to fabricate a new regulator.

Wheeljack carefully reassembled Bluestreak's coverings, but left the damaged regulator in Bluestreak's mid-section exposed.

When Ratchet returned to the patient, he was carrying a set of medical equipment: a stand on rollers, a fuel filter, a portable fuel tank, hoses and vector connectors to fit it all together.

"I'm going to set Bluestreak up with a power bypass and charge filter," the Autobot doctor explained. "That way he'll be mobile until we can do a proper repair."

"Right. I'll see what I can find in the way of plans," Wheeljack said, rubbing the chin of his face mask. "Prowl has the same regulator design. It'll be a good start. But it might be tricky to find parts."

Ratchet rolled the stand up close to the offline mech and set down the parts on a nearby work table. He handed the fuel tank to Wheeljack.

"Here, fill this," the doctor instructed.

Wheeljack looked down into the large, empty receptacle and then back up at Ratchet.

"Over there," Ratchet said flatly, pointing to the energon supply bank across the medical bay. "Fill it with fresh energon."

"Oh, of course," Wheeljack responded.

Once the receptacle was filled, Ratchet attached it and the filter to the top of the stand and assembled the hoses and connectors. He carefully opened the dispensing valve until energon flowed through the length of transparent hose up to the adapter. Ratchet then cut a hole in the housing cover, ran the hose through it, and patched the energy bypass into the output side of Bluestreak's regulator. He finished by closing Bluestreak's last covering.

"His energy absorbers should respond quickly to this," Ratchet said.

A moment later, Bluestreak's optics brightened to their normal intensity and he gasped as the fresh energy flowed through him. Bluestreak's optics widened, and a look of fright came over his faceplate. "_Shrapnel!_"

Ratchet held Bluestreak from sitting upright too quickly. "Not so fast," the boxy red and white medic cautioned the injured Autobot. "You're in med bay."

"I-I am?" Bluestreak inquired, looking around at his surroundings as he leaned back on one elbow joint. There were no Inspecticons, only the safety of Autobot Headquarters. He chuckled nervously and placed a hand on top of his helmet. "I am."

"Shrapnel gave you quite the electro-bite," Ratchet explained to Bluestreak.

Random images flashed in Bluestreak's processor: snowflakes falling; Prime leading them from the Ark; Bombshell firing a cerebro shell; and Lord Xangzar climbing inside a giant robot head and the robot obediently placing it on its body. He glanced down and the tube running out of his body to the medical device beside him suddenly caught the Autobot's attention.

"W-what is that?" Bluestreak sputtered suspiciously.

Ratchet straightened. "That's an energy bypass. The electrical shock burned out your power regulator. You're going to need this bypass for a while until we can make you a replacement part," he explained with authority.

"I've been modified while I was offline?" he asked with a grimace, and then fear took over. "What else did you modify? Do I still have all of my processor? Is it still in my head?"

Bluestreak began frantically probing his head with his fingertips. Then he took the energon tube in his palms. His optics followed the length of glowing pink plasma to where the tube disappeared into his torso. Barely suppressed panic spread across his faceplate.

"Is my brain in there?" Bluestreak pointed to his midsection. His faceplate went slack as if he were about to be sick.

There was an awkward silence.

"What are you talking about?" Wheeljack asked incredulously.

"You don't get it, do you?" Bluestreak pleaded. He pointed at the chief medical officer. "Imagine there's this guy sitting inside Ratchet's head, making him _do_ things. The guy pulls levers and pushes pedals to make Ratchet walk and move his arms – even talk!" Bluestreak tapped the side of his helmet with his index finger and lowered his voice to a whisper. "When Ratchet says something, _it's not really him_ – it's the guy in his head who's doing it!"

"You mean a _homunculus_?" Wheeljack asked.

"I never heard them called that," Bluestreak responded, thinking of the Brain Men. "That must be their _alien_ name."

Ratchet frowned. "There is _nothing_ in my head!" he declared angrily and then realized what he had said. "I mean… there isn't anything in there that shouldn't be there."

"Prove it," Bluestreak pointedly told Ratchet.

The bizarre challenge caught Ratchet off guard and he punted for a moment. Then the chief medical officer drew his faceplate close to Bluestreak's and pointed to his left optic.

"Do you see anyone in there?" Ratchet asked him, rolling his optical sensor around so that Bluestreak could see the mechanism moving.

"No," Bluestreak said quietly, looking down at his legs as he sat on the medical bay table.

"Then trust me when I tell you that there is no one in _my_ head, in _your_ head, or in anyone else's head." Ratchet flapped his arms in frustration.

"Ratchet's right," Wheeljack agreed. "If you want to come to my workshop some time I'll show you the components that actually are in our heads."

Bluestreak looked up, glimpses of old memories of war-torn Cybertron and the sight of death filtering through his memory banks. He had seen those components before, strewn across the metallic ground in a sickening mess.

"That-that's okay, Wheeljack," Bluestreak answered glumly. He did not want to be reminded of that carnage.

"Just offering," the engineer added.

"Bluestreak," Ratchet said emphatically, "sometimes a big jolt like the one you sustained can cause a state of mind that doesn't seem normal… like anxiety." The tone of Ratchet's voice was firm yet reassuring. "Just try to relax while your automatic repair systems work on stabilizing your circuits. You're officially off duty until we can get you properly fixed up."

Bluestreak looked up at the energon tank atop the stand.

"Be careful with this unit here," Ratchet advised his patient, placing a hand on the mobile energy bypass, "so that you don't knock it over."

"That has to go everywhere I do?" Bluestreak asked uncomfortably.

"Yes," Ratchet answered, "so don't transform. Stick to light activities." The chief medical officer offered an amicable grin to lighten the mood of the moment.

Bluestreak frowned.

Ratchet and Wheeljack exchanged glances of concern.

"There's always TV," Wheeljack mentioned, the protruding lamps on either side of the engineer's head blinking bright blue as he spoke.

Bluestreak laughed nervously. _As long as there are no more scary movies_, he thought.

Ratchet helped Bluestreak off the table. Wheeljack held the stand steady until Bluestreak was safely up on his feet.

"I've got it," Bluestreak thanked Wheeljack with a polite smile.

Ratchet stood back with his knuckle joints resting confidently on his hip plates. "There you go."

Bluestreak headed to the door, carefully guiding the stand on its rollers. The big, double doors opened automatically, and he departed from medical bay.

After he was gone, Ratchet looked at Wheeljack. "Well? Is he okay?"

Wheeljack scratched his head. "It's hard to tell with Bluestreak," he responded slowly, "even on a good day." He shrugged.

* * *

Alone in the hallway, Bluestreak gazed at the tank atop the fragile-looking stand and sighed to himself.

"What a drag," he muttered, testing the rollers, "this thing can't go outside." It was too fragile. As he imagined rolling the stand along with him inside the Ark, he was overcome by the visceral image of accidentally tipping the stand and overbalancing the tank on top, and it sloshing the pink plasma all over someone. He frowned.

Barely five minutes had passed and Bluestreak was bored already. He needed someone to talk to. So, with the energy bypass stand in hand, he headed toward the nearby training center.

As Bluestreak turned the corner into the room, one of the rollers on the stand squeaked nosily. Self-conscious of the noise, the Autobot nudged the squeaky wheel with his foot. The tank rocked dangerously as the fluid sloshed around inside. Optics wide, Bluestreak instantly grabbed the stand with both hands and waited for the energon to settle.

"_Phew!_" he sighed and relaxed.

Looking around the training room, he realized that he had come at a slow time. The equipment stood idle except for someone over on one of the reflex trainers. Whoever it was, the mech was focused on developing his servo responses and did not notice Bluestreak. The gunner carefully maneuvered the stand through the maze of training equipment. As he drew closer, he could see that it was the Autobot strategist, Prowl.

Prowl stood on the data footpad, with wires from the exercise computer laced into his left forearm. The strategist faced away from Bluestreak, gazing into the holographic arena displayed before him. He was facing off against a virtual opponent in hand-to-hand tactical combat.

Prowl leaned back to avoid a lunge punch from his virtual adversary, then grabbed the extended arm and twisted it behind the imaginary attacker's back.

Bluestreak glanced down at a display screen on the computer behind the footpad. Prowl was up to difficulty level seven. The computer registered a point for the maneuver.

"That's pretty good," Bluestreak said.

His concentration broken by the unexpected comment behind him, Prowl turned to see who it was. As he did, the holographic opponent broke free and delivered a crushing blow to Prowl's head.

"Knockout," the computer announced in a clipped tone. "Match over."

Prowl's head snapped back to the combat game. "_No!_" he grumbled.

"Hey, Prowl," Bluestreak greeted him.

"Not now, Bluestreak!" Prowl snapped, eager to get back in the battle.

"You were doing pretty good up until just then," Bluestreak noted.

Prowl ignored Bluestreak. "Replay move," he ordered the computer.

"Replay move," the computer affirmed. "One life remaining."

Prowl's holographic fighter leapt back up, fists and feet flying at his opponent. The strategist's clipped tactics showed impressive focus and training as he forced his opponent into a submission hold, gripping his virtual enemy by the hydraulic hoses in his neck.

"Critical hit opportunity," the computer noted dryly.

"Go for it!" Bluestreak cheered him on. "Take out that Decepticon!"

With a flick of his hand, Prowl dislodged the hoses and the holographic fight ended.

"Victory," the computer announced in a monotone. "Proceed to level eight."

"That was amazing!" Bluestreak exclaimed excitedly as Prowl disconnected himself from the trainer and stepped down off the footpad. "I haven't seen anyone finish off a level seven opponent, though I did see Jazz do a pretty cool level six takedown."

Prowl stared at the gunner.

"Yeah, he did a move like this," Bluestreak said as he mimicked a hook punch, "and then like this, and this." He proceeded to throw another punch with his other arm, and then flung out his foot in a clumsy kick.

As Bluestreak's weight carried forward after the kick, he inadvertently yanked on the energy bypass. Prowl's optics popped wide as the tank full of energon careened toward him.

"Uh-oh," Bluestreak said as he saw the tank overturning. The glowing contents sloshed out of the tank and all over the black and white strategist.

"Oops," Bluestreak said, embarrassed by his blunder. "Sorry."

"Great," Prowl flicked his hands, shaking off the rivulets of energon running down his arms.

Bluestreak laughed self-consciously. "I guess that's why I'm a gunner and not a fighter."

"I guess that's why," Prowl muttered.

"Hey, do you mind if I watch you train for a while?" Bluestreak inquired. "Maybe I'll learn something I can use… you know, that might-"

"No," Prowl interrupted him. "I need to concentrate, which means no distractions."

Bluestreak's frame sank.

Prowl sighed. "Hey, why don't you go-"

"-talk to Smokescreen?" Bluestreak finished the sentence at the same time as Prowl. To Bluestreak, it seemed only natural that Prowl would make that suggestion, though he was not sure why.

Prowl paused. "Yeah." He idly wondered how Bluestreak had figured out what he was going to say. "I saw him over by the data library."

"Okay," Bluestreak agreed. "Thanks, Prowl."

Prowl left to get cleaned up and Bluestreak headed off to find Smokescreen, wheeling the energy bypass stand down the orange-gold hallways of the Ark.

Passing by the open door to one of the large communal rooms, Bluestreak heard voices and glanced inside. Cliffjumper was pulling on the horns of his helmet while talking to Gears and Bumblebee. The red minibot was clearly excited about something.

_Why is Cliffjumper trying to pull off his head?_ Bluestreak wondered. He suddenly froze. _Brain Men!_ Overcome with terror, Bluestreak gripped his energy bypass stand. His fuel pump raced wildly. _Is Cliffjumper one of them? Do the others know? Are they piloted by aliens too?_ Bluestreak suppressed the urge to scream.

"Speak of the devil," Bumblebee said as he noticed the gunner standing by the doorway.

"Hey, Bluestreak! Want to join us?" he called out.

The valve in Bluestreak's throat manifold choked shut momentarily. Bumblebee's words echoed in his head. _Want to join us? Want to join us? __Want to join us?_

"N-no thanks, guys," Bluestreak replied, trying to sound as friendly as possible despite his mounting panic. "There's, uh… Prowl's orders," he finished lamely. The frightened Autobot hurried away, occasionally glancing behind him to check that the three minibots were not following him.

Inside the communal room, Cliffjumper was exasperated. "See what I mean?" he gestured toward the door as the other two minibots listened, amused. "He drives me _crazy!_"

Gears chuckled at Cliffjumper. "Don't pull your horns out over it."

* * *

Bluestreak's optic ridges furrowed as he mentally replayed the scene of Cliffjumper about to remove his head.

"_Holy hexagons!_ Is it really happening?" he wondered aloud, hushing his voice so that no one would hear him talking to himself. Thank Primus he had seen the movie and been alerted to the possibility of aliens snatching control of the Autobots. _Those wily aliens must be very sneaky to have done it without anyone noticing_.

"I have to be _very_ careful," he said, panting through his vocalizer. "I need to know who is okay and who isn't. If I expose myself… I could get turned into one of them."

Bluestreak hastened toward the data library to find Smokescreen, as Prowl had told him. Prowl was trustworthy.

The data library was a claustrophobic room strategically located in a heavily reinforced compartment near the tail of the ship. It had survived the devastating impact of the Ark's crash landing into the side of Mount St. Hilary millennia ago. The library contained extensive hard files of Autobot knowledge and history. There was supposedly enough information to construct a new Cybertronian colony. The library also served as a back-up repository for the vast quantity of Earth data intercepted and recorded by Teletraan I.

In the small room, Smokescreen silently scanned the contents of file number 38496-6. _Aha!_ he thought to himself. He had found another historical news file for the last of the horses in the upcoming Gold Coast Express. The dark horse, a thoroughbred named Natural Traction, had a checkered past but seemed to be on a winning streak of late. The bookmakers clearly figured that Natural Traction's heyday was over, but Smokescreen was not so sure. When Natural Traction started winning, he could really keep it up. _This could be my lucky horse_, he chuckled.

"Win, place, or show, baby!" Smokescreen crowed to himself as he slipped file number 38496-6 into a compartment in his forearm.

Smokescreen had lost plenty betting on the horses favored to win; so much, in fact, that he no longer had any faith in the bookies' odds. Anything, it seemed, could happen in that final stretch of the race. Betting on a dark horse had the added bonus of a bigger potential payout, particularly when placing a trifecta wager.

Bluestreak found the red, blue and white Autobot standing in front of the index processor. Smokescreen worked the index processor with one hand; a stack of hard file cartridges was clenched in the other. The Autobot was busily scanning the display screen, all the while muttering to himself, over and over.

"Win, place, show, that's the way to go! Win, place, show, that's the…"

"Hi Smokescreen," Bluestreak waved.

Smokescreen started. He hurriedly set down the stack of cartridges on the countertop and turned to face Bluestreak. If Prime found out he was using Teletraan I's files to bet on the races again, his head would roll. But what Prime did not know was that Smokescreen _had _to get the money. His credit card, which he had used to make the previous bets, was accumulating interest at a shocking rate. He had eluded Prowl's prying eyes earlier, but Bluestreak had caught him off guard and unprepared. Smokescreen fumbled for the indexer power switch and turned the machine off, inching himself in front of the cartridges.

"Whatcha doing?" Bluestreak inquired with a friendly smile.

"Oh, nothing," Smokescreen answered matter-of-factly. "That is, nothing that you'd probably understand." He smiled broadly.

Bluestreak looked perplexed, so the diversionary tactician varnished his explanation. "Okay… It's kind of complicated. Hard to explain, really. Figures and details and stuff. That isn't your thing, is it?"

"But I like things that are challenging," said Bluestreak, "like puzzles and crosswords."

Smokescreen rolled his optics.

"Look… everyone knows that you're a lucky guy – that's why they call you Streak, right?"

"Huh?" Bluestreak asked, confused. "That's not why they call me Streak. It's 'cause I'm quick on the draw." Bluestreak sighted up an imaginary beam rifle. "I can knock down three Decepticons before Prime can sight up the first one."

"Of course," Smokescreen replied with another grin, content that he had distracted Bluestreak from his activities. He discretely placed one of his hands behind his back, feeling for the cartridges, and then pushed them out of clear sight.

"So, this looks kind of special…" he started, gazing at the stand and half-full energon tank connected to the gunner. "Where did you get it?"

"Oh that?" Bluestreak responded, glancing at the device. "My regulator needs to be replaced, so Ratchet said I've got to use this in the meantime."

"Really," Smokescreen crossed his arms and said with feigned interest. "How did that happen?"

Bluestreak started into a lengthy description of the events of the battle at the Granite Creek power plant until Smokescreen's attention began to wander.

"I'm sure it was quite a battle, Bluestreak," Smokescreen summarized. He put a hand on the other Autobot's shoulder and coolly guided him out of the data library.

"Look at that. I'd love to chat, but I really have to go now," he excused himself as he pretended to check his chronometer.

Bluestreak fidgeted. "I just think it's a little strange that you have to go as soon as I show up," he observed. "Are you hiding something?"

Smokescreen faltered, then laughed nervously. "Well, c'mon now… everyone has their little secrets," he said, tapping the side of his head with his index finger.

Bluestreak's eyes widened. Smokescreen was already being piloted by one of _them_.

"I know what you're up to," Bluestreak accused. "You were looking through Teletraan I's data files to learn as much as you can. You want to know everything so that you can _win_."

Smokescreen's optics widened with fear. "Did Prowl put you up to this?"

Bluestreak nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the other Autobot in case he tried to make any sudden moves.

"Does Prime know?" Smokescreen asked.

"Not yet," Bluestreak answered, "but he's going to know soon enough."

"No!" Smokescreen exclaimed. "Don't tell Prime. Please, Bluestreak. Let's be reasonable about this."

"You must be joking!" Bluestreak sputtered, laughing in disbelief. "This is the biggest threat to the Autobots since…" he started, then stopped to think. "Well, since ever."

"C'mon, Bluestreak," Smokescreen pleaded, desperation in his vocalizer. "I'll let you in on my plan if you promise to help me. I'll even give you… ten percent of the spoils."

_Ten percent of the Earth?_ Bluestreak thought with a puzzled expression on his faceplate. _What would I do with that?_

"No way, Smokescreen!"

"Okay, okay," Smokescreen negotiated, eager to win Bluestreak over. He could not afford to give up much more, but if Bluestreak went to Prime, he would have nothing at all. "I'll give you fifteen percent. But if I lose, I'm not taking the full hit."

The clever Autobot was already scheming a way to start up a new credit card in Bluestreak's name. Not only would that effectively extend his own credit, but it would also help him by spreading around any future losses.

"_What?_ What am I supposed to do with fifteen percent?" Bluestreak asked, confused.

Smokescreen was surprised by Bluestreak's apparent shrewdness. "Fifteen percent of fifty thousand dollars? That's… well, that's a lot! Think of all the adventures you could go on. You could afford freight passage around the world. You could go and… see things." He spread his palms out. "Imagine the possibilities, Bluestreak. You could afford to buy Christmas presents for your friends."

"Huh?" Bluestreak struggled to understand the conversation. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about an incredible opportunity, Bluestreak. Think about how much money you'll make." Smokescreen offered his hand to shake. "What do you say... partner?"

Bluestreak chuckled nervously. The alien plot to take over the world must be financial. _In that case_, Bluestreak thought, _I should cooperate with Smokescreen to gain the aliens' trust and learn the details of their plan – and then foil it when the time is right_. _Then I'll tell Prime_ _and be a hero_.

Bluestreak hesitantly took Smokescreen's hand and the two shook.

"Excellent," Smokescreen grinned widely, showing his glistening dental plates. He had to get Bluestreak involved in the actual betting as soon as possible, so that he would be just as guilty of gambling before he could change his mind and tell anyone.

"Tell you what," Smokescreen began, looking down as he thought. "How 'bout you come with me and we'll get the details of this ironed out."

"Okay," Bluestreak shrugged.

Bluestreak followed Smokescreen back to his quarters. Once inside, Smokescreen locked the door to ensure that they would not be found out. Then he pressed a button concealed under his desktop and a large section of wall panel slid away to reveal a super-secret console and display.

"Of course!" Bluestreak gasped. "You'd need something like this."

Smokescreen nodded. "Yup. You don't think I'd actually use Teletraan I and risk being seen."

"No," Bluestreak answered plainly. He looked back and forth over the elaborate communications station. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Since a year ago last October," Smokescreen responded proudly. "I had to be really careful about getting all of this stuff in here."

"I bet," Bluestreak said, nodding knowingly.

The gunner seemed very interested in gambling, which pleased Smokescreen and set him at ease. The sly tactician popped the borrowed data cartridge – file number 38496-6 – out of his forearm and inserted it into a slot in the desk. A picture of Natural Traction appeared on the screen, accompanied by sub-screens showing statistics and related news stories. Smokescreen scanned the information, then pulled up the list of all of the horses scheduled to run in the Gold Coast Express.

"Horse racing?" Bluestreak asked, perplexed. "How does this fit in with the plan?"

"Beats the odds of winning the lottery," Smokescreen explained, looking over at Bluestreak. "I just have to know something about the jockeys and horses and the odds are better than the random chance of a lottery." He looked back to the screen momentarily. "I need to make sure I get the fifty thousand," he said firmly, "and I've got to start where I've got a reasonable chance."

"Oh," Bluestreak said plainly. "You mean like… phase one of the plan?"

Smokescreen looked at Bluestreak oddly. "I-I guess you could call it that," he agreed.

"Now," Smokescreen said, moving on, "these are the horses running in the Australian Gold Coast Express." Smokescreen pointed to the list on the screen. "I'll show you how this works. We're going to pick not only the winner, but the top three in order. That's how you win the most money. It's called a trifecta. For example," he stated, calling forward the picture of Natural Traction to center screen for a moment, "I think that this one, Natural Traction, is going to do well. He's run in eight races so far this year, and won his last _seven_. Now _that_ is a horse."

Bluestreak's circuits tingled when he looked at Natural Traction. "I'm not sure. I have a funny feeling he might not place first again. Besides, his name sounds kind of funny."

"You can't go by the name," Smokescreen told Bluestreak. "Look, here are the odds." He called up the stakes schedule.

"What about him?" Bluestreak asked, pointing at another horse on the screen. "Carnival Magnus. That's a neat name."

"Yeah, well you've got to consider the odds. Carnival Magnus has _never_ won. Ignore the names. They don't mean anything. Okay?"

"Okay."

"You see," Smokescreen continued, "the bookies figure that Partly Cloudy, Northern Pointe and Expect Tropical are more likely to win, but that makes the payoff lower. To win a lot of money with those you have to bet a lot of money – more than I've got. You follow?"

Bluestreak nodded.

"Now, Natural Traction is a different story. Sure, the bookies don't think he'll perform this time around. But I've done my research. I can tell that horse will win. And it's long odds, so the payoff will be sweet. A nice bet might be a win for Natural Traction, place for Northern Pointe, and show for Expect Tropical."

"But what if Carnival Magnus _did_ win, somehow?" insisted Bluestreak. "Like, what if all the faster horses fell down?"

"You know," Smokescreen continued, scheming, "I like the way you think. Maybe you're onto something. Cover all the bases. Split the bet. Put money on the sure thing but play the long shot, too – especially since the payout on the long shot is so big."

He checked his chronometer, tapped some keys and pulled up an online form. "I have to do this quickly since they'll be racing shortly. If you want to give Carnival Magnus a try, I'll have to set you up with one of these." The tactician grinned amicably at Bluestreak.

"What's that?" Bluestreak asked.

"It's just a credit application form," Smokescreen explained. "You have to fill one of these out so that you can get access to money. It doesn't cost you anything to do it. I've got one."

"Should we be doing that?" Bluestreak asked.

"Sure," Smokescreen answered smoothly. "Humans do it all the time. It's how they pay for cars, houses, vacations, jewelry… all that big ticket stuff. It's no big deal. Really."

Bluestreak went along with Smokescreen and filled out the credit application. Smokescreen completed the first part for him by giving Bluestreak an alias.

"Let's call you… Jimmy Bluestone," he said, picking the first human-sounding name that came to mind.

"But I'm Bluestreak," Bluestreak protested.

"Bluestreak, Bluestone," Smokescreen shrugged. "It's close enough. Trust me on this."

"Well, okay," Bluestreak reluctantly agreed while Smokescreen filled out the remainder of the form.

Once the application process was finished, Smokescreen submitted the credit application online, smacked his hands together and grinned.

"Okay, all done. Just a few more seconds…" a long number flashed on the screen, along with the name Jimmy Bluestone and Smokescreen's preferred mailing address.

"Bingo!" the tactician grinned widely. "Let's get started with your picks. Look over the list and tell me which ones give you that lucky feeling."

Bluestreak scrutinized the list of horses on the screen, ignoring the incomprehensible statistics about their previous races and standings: Checkered Pass, Natural Traction, Partly Cloudy, Northern Pointe, Expect Tropical, Carnival Magnus, Last Chance Tiger and Flamingo Dancer.

"In order? Hmm… I pick," Bluestreak started slowly. He asked himself who he thought would win. Carnival Magnus' name kept standing out as he looked up and down the list, even though Smokescreen figured he would lose. "Carnival Magnus in first."

Smokescreen's optics widened. "Going with the long shot after all?" He shrugged and recorded the bet electronically.

That tingle came back when Bluestreak looked at Natural Traction's name. "Natural Traction in second," he said, letting the strange feeling guide his attention, "and Flamingo Dancer to come in third."

"Wow," Smokescreen mouthed with disbelief. "Natural Traction to place is a decent pick, but Flamingo Dancer to show? That horse is a dog."

"You said I should pick which ones I thought were lucky," Bluestreak defended his choices.

"Okay," he agreed. "Those are your horses. Wish 'em luck." Smokescreen wanted to keep Bluestreak's interest in gambling, and it would not be that much money flushed away, so he decided not to be too critical.

Bluestreak looked up at the horses on the screen. "Good luck, guys."

Smokescreen quickly submitted his picks electronically and sent them to the race track's computers through his special channel. "It's race time, folks!" He grabbed his guest chair and pushed it toward Bluestreak. "Have a seat, Mr. Lucky."

Bluestreak laughed uncomfortably before taking the offer to sit and watch the race with Smokescreen.

Smokescreen called up the racing channel and dialed up the volume. On the screen, the track announcer narrated as the horses lined up into the starting gate.

"The announcer's voice sounds strange," Bluestreak noted.

"That's 'cause he's Australian, Bluestreak. They talk like that down there," Smokescreen answered as he opened a drawer in his desk console and took out some energon snacks. He popped the top off of the cylindrical container, poured some energy pellets in his palm and threw them into the back of his mouth.

"Want some?" Smokescreen asked, offering his companion the container of glowing goodies.

"No… no thanks."

"Hey, relax. It's just a race." Smokescreen leaned back in his chair, comfortably holding onto the backs of the missile launchers on either shoulder. "If we don't win big on this one there are always others."

"Yes. Right," Bluestreak hesitantly agreed with Smokescreen. "Of course. I know that."

Suddenly the gate bell rang and the announcer called the start of the race. "And… _they're off!_"

Smokescreen sat up, perching himself on the edge of his seat. Expect Tropical and Northern Pointe broke through into the lead coming out of the first corner.

"Go! _Go!_" Smokescreen loudly cheered them on as they broke into the first straightaway.

Bluestreak watched his horses. They were in the middle of the pack, with Carnival Magnus starting to trail behind.

"C'mon, guys," Smokescreen pleaded with the images on the screen, "make me some money!"

Then something happened. In an incomprehensible blur, the lead horse went down. Because the horses were so close together, several were caught between the barrier and the fallen racehorse. They stumbled over the injured animal and were out of the race.

"No, no, no, _no!_" Smokescreen lamented, wringing his hands. "No! This isn't supposed to happen!" Two of his three horses had gone down in the fray. He leaned forward and put his faceplate in his hands, not wanting to see the rest.

Bluestreak could not believe what he was seeing. Somehow, all of his horses – plus Last Chance Tiger – made it through the incident. They were the only racehorses left in the running.

"Ha, ha!" the gunner laughed with a wave of relief. "Smokescreen, look!"

"What?" Smokescreen looked up. Miraculously, Bluestreak's picks were still in fine racing form.

The horses flew through the last turn and pulled into the straightaway leading up to the finish line. Carnival Magnus edged past Last Chance Tiger and Flamingo Dancer, but Natural Traction held onto the lead.

The two Autobots cheered them on with gusto. "Go Magnus! Go for it!"

Carnival Magnus, the long shot, suddenly broke past Natural Traction and galloped to the finish. The other three rallied for place and show. It was going to be close.

"Go, go, go, _go!_" Smokescreen hammered his fist in the air as he stood up to watch the incredible finish.

Keeping one hand firmly on the energy bypass stand, Bluestreak stood and copied Smokescreen's cheer.

In the final yards, Last Chance Tiger fell away, leaving Flamingo Dancer and Natural Traction to compete for second place.

"I can't believe this!" Smokecreen exclaimed, awestruck at Carnival Magnus' impossible finish and Bluestreak's other two horses about to complete the trifecta.

The second and third place horses were neck and neck when they flew across the finish line. It was too close to tell the order.

"_Whoo-hoo!_" Bluestreak howled merrily with delight. "My boys won!"

A moment later the channel displayed the finishing snapshot of the two horses. Natural Traction had edged out Flamingo Dancer by a nose.

"_Yeah!_" Smokescreen punched the air. "I won!"

Then he looked at Bluestreak. "I mean… you won. _You won!_" With a huge grin, he gave Bluestreak a congratulatory slap on the back.

"Hah!" Bluestreak laughed, "I did."

"I don't know how you did it, but I know one thing," Smokescreen said as he hurriedly fumbled through a drawer and pulled out a piece of paper with a number matrix on it. "You need to buy a lottery ticket today. Because that," he pointed emphatically at the win on the screen, "was unbelievable. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were psychic."

"I just picked the ones that I thought would win," Bluestreak explained plainly.

"That's the point!" Smokescreen explained excitedly. "That's what it's like to have _the gift_." He thrust the paper at Bluestreak.

"Pick seven numbers," he crowed excitedly. "Pick seven numbers that you think will win. Use your_ gift_ to pick them."

"I don't have a gift," the gunner said quietly.

"C'mon," Smokescreen prodded him, "no need to be humble about it."

"Well, um… okay." He picked out the numbers and Smokescreen logged them on a data pad.

"Great," Smokescreen said, tucking the data pad into the vehicle mode passenger compartment on his back. "I'm off to the city to get that ticket. Why don't you, uh, buy yourself something with your winnings? Just don't spend too much."

"How?" Bluestreak asked, scratching his head.

"With that number we got you, Jimmy," he answered. "Remember, buddy? The credit card?"

"Right," Bluestreak responded. "The credit card."

Smokescreen grinned immensely. "Mr. Jimmy Bluestone," he gushed.

"Uh, okay," Bluestreak mumbled, flustered.

"Think Christmas," Smokescreen chimed as he ushered the gunner toward the door. "Think Christmas!"

"Christmas," he acknowledged as the tactician maneuvered him out into the hallway and closed up his quarters.

"See you later, partner," Smokescreen waved as he sauntered down the hallway.

Bluestreak paused for a moment to process everything that had just transpired.

At the far end of the hallway, Smokescreen sang merrily away. "Oh, I'm off to make some money," he crooned, "the wonderful jingle of cash!"

* * *

Elsewhere in the Ark, two conspirators went over their plan to spread holiday cheer among the Autobots.

"You sure you memorized the image right?" Jazz checked. "You're not going to make him blue and white or somethin'?"

Hound chuckled. "Of course not. I know what this guy's supposed to look like. Don't worry. How about you? You sure you're not going to slip up in the voice department?"

"Heh," Jazz laughed. He attached the voice modifier to the side of his helmet and adjusted the microphone so that it was in front of his mouth.

"How does this sound, man?" the saboteur asked in a deep, merry human voice.

"Man?" Hound asked with skepticism.

Jazz turned the arm of the microphone away so that he could talk normally. "Jus' kidding." He paused. "See, I didn't say it. I've been practicing."

"Good." Hound grinned. "You've got the goods?"

"Of course," Jazz responded. "Let's get this show on the road." He turned the microphone back in front of his mouth and nodded to the other Autobot.

Hound acknowledged and threw up the planned hologram to conceal them. Where the two Autobots stood close together was an Autobot-sized Santa Claus. The scout then checked his tracking system, picking out the Lamborghini twins in close proximity.

"Two jingle bells at one o'clock, around the corner," he whispered to Jazz. "They'll be passing the end of the hallway in a minute."

"Perfect," Jazz smiled through the Santa voice emulator.

The two hurried forward to meet up with the red and yellow twins. Jazz put his hand over his fuel tank and let out a rolling belly laugh as the stunned pair gasped at the strange sight.

"Ho-ho-ho!" the holographic Santa laughed merrily. "Have you been good this year?"

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe looked at one another with bewildered expressions.

"How did a giant human break into the base?" Sideswipe asked, puzzled.

Sunstreaker's optics narrowed. "I say we get him."

"Right, bro'," Sideswipe agreed and made a grab for his flare rifle.

But Santa was quicker on the draw and had a proton rifle pointed at them in a flash.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Santa warned them, his jolly smile turning upside down.

The two Autobot warriors slowly put their hands in the air in surrender.

Santa took one hand off the gun to wag his finger at them. "You've been naughty this year, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe."

"What?" Sideswipe asked incredulously. "How do you know me?"

"He doesn't," Sunstreaker answered him. "He's just guessing."

Santa looked at the yellow warrior. "Nobody likes someone who's arrogant and self-centered."

Sunstreaker tensed and his fingers curled at the comment.

"Ho-ho," Santa chuckled. "You need to lighten up. Here," Santa took two discs out of his red velvet coat, attached one to the end of the gun, and fired at Sunstreaker.

Sunstreaker's optics shot wide open the instant that he realized the giant human in red and white was going to shoot. The disc struck him with little more than a light slap, though. He looked down at his chestplate to see where he had been hit. Over top of his Autobot insignia was a yellow sticker with a large happy face on it.

"You could use some holiday cheer too, my red friend," Santa declared in a light-hearted tone.

The second disc smacked on top of Sideswipe's Autobot symbol. The red warrior looked down at the silly face smiling back at him.

"You can't do this!" Sideswipe pouted defiantly.

Santa kept his photon rifle trained on them.

"Rembember, Lambos," Santa said with a cheery smile and a friendly wink, "be good. Santa's watching you."

The twins began to argue with the mysterious giant character, so he blinded them with a dazzling flash of light.

That was the cue for Hound and Jazz to flee before the Lambos' optic sensors recovered and they took chase. Still disguised by Hound's hologram of a giant Santa Claus, the two Christmas conspirators fled back up the hallway, turned one corner, and then the next. Just when they thought they were in the clear, Bluestreak appeared before them in the hallway, wheeling his energy bypass along beside him.

Santa skidded to a stop before they collided.

"Uh-oh. It's Bluestreak," Jazz whispered to Hound through the Santa voice emulator. "What do we do now?"

"Give him something!" Hound whispered hoarsely to Jazz. "Don't make him suspicious. We don't want the twins to find out that Santa was us."

"Like what?" Jazz asked in a hurry.

"How about those car decorations?" Hound whispered back.

"Got it," Jazz responded and took out the gift.

"Santa?" Bluestreak asked hesitantly. "Are you talking to yourself?"

"Ho-ho-ho," Santa answered back with a friendly smile, pretending as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Bluestreak relaxed, a huge smile spilling onto his face plate. "I knew you were real."

"Of-of course I'm real, m-" Jazz answered as Santa, fighting off the urge to add a signature "man" to the end of the sentence. He glanced behind him, worried about spending too long talking to Bluestreak. He and Hound had to gain some distance from the twins, and quickly.

With the big man himself right there, Bluestreak went for broke. "I'd like a pet for Christmas," he declared to the jolly, holographic saint.

"That's a lot of responsibility," Santa responded in a kindly tone. "How about some fish instead?"

Santa wound up and tossed two car decorations like ninja stars at Bluestreak. Bluestreak flinched and closed his optics, not wanting to be hurt by the objects thrown at him. A second later, something slapped against the front, right side of his chestplate and on the front his left foot.

"Be good, Bluestreak," Santa told the silver gunner and put his index finger next to his nose. With a dazzling display of light, Bluestreak was blinded. When his optics recovered, Santa was gone.

Bluestreak looked down at his Datsun Fairlady car hood chest and his foot, which formed half of the rear of the vehicle. Stuck to both locations was a simplistic metallic outline of a fish.

Bluestreak scratched his head. "What do these mean?" He wondered aloud. The symbols appeared to be insignia, similar to the Autobot faction symbol he wore. "Have I joined a fish club?" He dropped his shoulders in disappointment and trudged back to his room.

When he returned to his quarters, Bluestreak slumped into the chair in front of his computer. As he fell into the metallic seat, the bypass stand caught on the base of the chair. Those between his torso and the stand suddenly went taut. With lightning quick reflexes, Bluestreak stuck out his right hand and caught the stand just as it was about to tip over.

His intuitive response surprised him. "That's strange," Bluestreak reflected to awe, "it's like… I knew exactly that was going to happen."

He moved the stand closer, allowing the hose to droop between him and the bypass stand.

"Psychic, huh?" he pondered remotely, thinking of the horse race. It could have been luck.

He punched some keys on the computer console in front of him. There had to be something good on TV to watch. A list of the current programs being broadcast appeared. Scanning them, Bluestreak grimaced.

"People's Court?" he said to himself, picking out one of the programs from the list. "Who wants to watch that… and Love Boat? _Pfft_."

Further down the list was a game show he had seen once. "I wonder if Smokescreen would be any good at the game show, Pyramid. Then again, would they even let one of us onto a show like that?"

He imagined what it would look like for a giant robot to appear on the set of the popular game show, next to the small human contestants. "They would have to pan the camera really far back to get an Autobot in the screen and then all of the people would look really tiny – which wouldn't look good on TV – unless he transformed into vehicle mode for the show, but then that might look weird, like KITT the talking car from Knight Rider."

He paused just long enough to sigh. "Aw, what do Autobots know about human trivia? Maybe Bumblebee or Hound or Jazz would know the answers to some of the questions. It's all too obscure for me."

There was nothing interesting on television. Generally, that was the case in the middle of the day. Cartoons came on after three o'clock, followed by programs like his favorite, Gilligan's Island. With Christmas approaching soon, a holiday special might even be on in the evening.

Bluestreak leaned his elbow on the desktop and dropped his chin into his hand, staring blankly at the screen. He still felt bad about spilling that energon all over Prowl. He respected Prowl and wondered what he could do to make up for the accident. Then an idea came to him.

"I know what I'll do. Since it's almost Christmas, I'll get Prowl a Christmas gift," Bluestreak stated. "Something better than fish club insignia. And since Smokescreen got me credit, I'll buy something. That'll fix that little accident with the energon."

Tapping a sequence of keys, he requested Teletraan I open a catalog directory of the stock in mainstream store computers.

"Now what sort of thing would Prowl like?" he wondered as he perused through the retail listings. "Most of these things are for humans. Gotta think about things that humans buy that an Autobot would like…"

He spent the good part of the next hour searching for things that might make suitable gifts.

"Ski racks?" Bluestreak asked aloud. "No, Prowl doesn't ski." He flipped through some more advertisements for products. "Luggage? No, Prowl doesn't go on vacation. Still, he could try going somewhere. Paris is popular. So is Hawaii. But how would I book one of those for a car? Hmm… maybe next year."

Bluestreak tapped the keys on the keypad, skipping through more ads before one caught his attention. His optics widened and he smiled. "That would be perfect," he concluded, and ordered the product with the number that Smokescreen had given him. "Place order, select next day shipping," he added as a he completed the sale. "All done." He chuckled contentedly to himself, certain that Prowl would appreciate the gift.

* * *

Lounging in his chair at the security console, Ironhide glanced over the Ark status screens. The rocky landscape framed the entrance to the open ship. All was calm.

With the base quiet and time on his hands, the boxy red security chief opened a thin chamber between the headlights of his Toyota minivan torso and took out a personal data drive. Casually, he inserted it into a free data port and leaned back with his hands clasped behind his head as the computer ran the personal program on the drive.

The security data on the main screen in front of Ironhide disappeared, replaced by a close-up of a spinning crank shaft inside a mechanism casing. The soothing, rhythmic purr of an engine accompanied the video. The camera panned back, slowly following the shaft back until, one by one, cams appeared. Eight metallic ellipses rotated in synch with one another, pumping their cam followers. The camera dropped down below the followers to show each driving the thrusting pistons of an engine. The video title flashed onto the screen: "BARE METAL: Exposed Surfaces 5."

"Oh yeah," Ironhide drawled as his lip components spread into a relaxed smile. "Haven't seen this one in long time."

The flickering light from the video washed over Ironhide as the lithe form of an acrobatic femme performed for the old mech.

"Heh," Ironhide murmured contendedly to himself, "been too long."

The echo of metallic footsteps approached the security station. Ironhide glanced over his shoulder as he waited to see who it was with his hand hovered over the drive, ready to pull it out in an instant. In his peripheral vision he glimpsed an average-height Autobot. _Definitely not Optimus_, the old veteran thought. He relaxed back into his seat as the video continued to play.

Wheeljack stopped once he entered the security station and looked around the room.

"I was looking for Optimus," the engineer stated.

"He ain't here."

Wheeljack peered at the screen in front of Ironhide and chuckled to himself. "Is that-?"

"Sure is," Ironhide answered quickly with a crooked grin. "I may be old, but I still appreciate fine metalwork when I see it."

Wheeljack stepped closer and Ironhide made space for him. A lithe mechanism gyrated and then pumped her gleaming body, gesturing like the strokes of pistons.

"Oh, she's good," Wheeljack stated, impressed with the mechanical complexity of the performance. Her joints bent, folded and rotated in perfect symphony. "I didn't know U-joints could do that."

"Wouldn't it be great to get a piece of that action?" Ironhide ribbed Wheeljack.

"We'll get back to Cybertron someday," the engineer said optimistically, "and you'll see Chromia again. Don't you worry."

Ironhide shook his head. "Was just thinkin' of workin' out… y'know, gettin' back into the swing of moving like that. Then show Chromia what I could do when we got back to Cybertron." He curled his fingers into a fist and awkwardly flexed his arm as his muscle hydraulics wheezed. "These ol' joints don't move like they used to."

"I could do a lot more for you, mechanically, if we had all the parts and energy we needed." Wheeljack paused and his thoughts drifted onto the topic of his visit. "Well, enjoy the show. I've gotta find Prime." Wheeljack headed back toward the door.

"You sure?" Ironhide inquired, craning to look over the back of the chair as the engineer walked away. "There's some even better stuff comin' up soon." He hooked his thumb back at the video screen. "You've gotta see what she does with grease nipples."

Wheeljack raised his palm toward the old mech. "No thanks, Ironhide," he replied politely.

"Well, okay," the security chief responded. He glanced down before providing a suggestion. "Try the battle room Prime might be there."

"Right," Wheeljack said and then left.

The rhythmic pulse of machinery sounded in the room. Ironhide turned back to the monitor and pressed a sequence of keys to take the video back to the point it was at when Wheeljack entered the room. He was going to watch it again, uninterrupted.

* * *

Wheeljack walked into the battle room, where Optimus Prime was flipping through channels on Teletraan I. Nearby, Jazz slouched casually with his arms crossed.

"What's up, m'man?" Jazz greeted the engineer.

Optimus Prime glanced over his shoulder when he heard his lieutenant greet Wheeljack then turned away from the computer.

"Optimus," Wheeljack began. The grey lamps on either side of his head flashed bright blue as he spoke. "I found something odd about Bluestreak's injury, something you should know about."

"What is it, Wheeljack?" the Autobot leader inquired.

"After Ratchet and I patched Bluestreak up with that energy bypass, I did an full analysis of Bluestreak's aura field. The high voltage jolt from Shrapnel's electro-bite distorted the aura field set up by his spark in his cerebral network."

Jazz stood up straight and came closer to listen.

"What does that mean?" Optimus Prime asked.

"Does that explain his obsession with aliens taking over Autobots?" Jazz inquired without missing a beat, as he twirled an index finger around the side of his head.

"I don't know about that, Jazz," the engineer answered plainly before looking back up at the tall Autobot leader. "I did research about this particular kind of distortion – and I know this is gonna sound crazy – but it's been linked with precognition."

"You mean to tell me that the electrical jolt has made Bluestreak psychic?" Optimus Prime inferred.

"Cyberpsychic Bluestreak," Jazz summarized. "I like the ring of that."

"Yes," Wheeljack responded. "Has he done or said anything that would indicate this?"

"Not that I know of," Prime said.

"This could give us a great strategic advantage over the Decepticons," Wheeljack furthered. "Imagine it. Bluestreak tellin' us what Megatron was going to do next."

"Cool," Jazz nodded with a grin.

"Hmm," Optimus Prime pondered, rubbing the chin of his battle mask. "The question remains whether Bluestreak can develop the ability. Does he know what has happened to him?"

"No, I haven't said anything to him," Wheeljack answered.

"Let's see what he says of his own accord before giving him any ideas," Optimus Prime stated.

"Test 'im, huh?" Jazz surmised.

"Affirmative," the Autobot leader acknowledged his lieutenant before switching the subject with a question for Wheeljack. "How is the work on his new regulator coming?"

"It's coming along fine," Wheeljack answered, "I should have it done very soon."

"Good," Optimus Prime began. "Ensure Bluestreak is fixed up as soon as possible."

"Yes, Optimus," Wheeljack agreed.

"Dismissed," Optimus Prime nodded.

* * *

The evening passed uneventfully. With the night patrol out on duty in the still, wintery world, the occupants of the Ark powered down to recharge for the next day.

Prowl rose and started the new day according to his regular regime. He entered a sequence of keys into a special computer on one side of his office and scanned the hieroglyphic data stream from Skyspy, his optics stopping briefly on the activity of various Autobots away from the Ark.

The military strategist then slid into the chair behind his desk and checked the sentry point status reports on a monitor that rose out of the desk surface. The video of the Autobot sentries sent a brief electrical shiver up his central column. He glanced at the image of Sideswipe. With his flare rifle at his ready, Sideswipe stood like a stone guardian in the bleak landscape, his features capped with powdery snow. All of the Autobots who were out in the elements were blanketed in the freshly falling snow.

Satisfied that he had briefed himself on the most recent intelligence data, the officer set about writing his daily briefing for Optimus Prime. The soft click of keystrokes broke the quiet calm of Prowl's office as the strategist worked on the report. He summarized recent reconnaissance activity. Around the base, nothing was out of the ordinary, which was not unexpected given the weather and time of year. There was no further activity from the Insecticons. They had virtually disappeared after the battle at the Granite Creek power plant. Prowl had half expected that they would turn up soon after, making lunch of some other target. Perhaps they were moving further south and out of the winter weather. Time would tell, Prowl knew. For now, it was a welcome respite to enjoy some down time to train and develop new tactics. Sooner, or later, it was inevitable that the 'Cons would strike again.

A metallic rap at his door took Prowl's attention away from the report.

"Who is it?" he asked through the closed door.

"Gears," the red and blue minibot called out. "There's something here for you."

Prowl pressed the button that opened the door. Gears entered bearing a festively wrapped, green and red package topped with a large silk ribbon bow.

"A delivery guy dropped this off," Gears explained, handing the gift to Prowl. "You know, he thought it was a gift for a cat." Gears chuckled.

Prowl looked at the other Autobot, expressionlessly. "Oh, why's that?"

"It was your name." Gears replied with a wry grin. "It's a name some humans give their pets. Cats prowl around so, you know, Prowl sounds like cat's name."

Prowl was unimpressed. "Is that supposed to be a joke?" he asked dryly.

Gears' grin melted into a sour frown. "I guess not," he remarked with the toss of his hand, "if you can't appreciate a sense of humor. Anyway, I hope it's not something totally useless." The minibot muttered something incomprehensible under his breath as he left the strategist's office.

Prowl's optic ridges knitted briefly and then he closed the door to examine the package alone. He turned it over in his hands then shook it. It was very light and made little sound. The gift label read: "_To: Prowl, From: Jimmy Bluestone." _

"That's strange. I don't know any humans by that name," Prowl stated.

Curious, the black and white Autobot set the box down on the corner of his desk and pulled on one of the long strips of ribbon, unfurling the bow. His white, metallic fingers carefully tore through the colored paper and peeled away the packing tape sealing the box. Opening the cardboard flaps on one end, Prowl spied the contents. It was something dark wrapped in a transparent plastic bag. The mystery gift was utterly perplexing.

Prowl eagerly pulled the contents out of the box and spread them in the air before him as he tried to figure out what it was. It was cloth-like and folded into a rectangle. A set of elastic cords with hooked ends were packaged inside, on top of the material.

"What in the name of the Great Matrix is this?" he murmured.

As he turned it over, an instruction pamphlet on the other side grabbed his attention. Prowl swiftly pulled open the plastic and retrieved the piece of paper, setting the gift down on the desk to read the instructions.

Prowl's optic ridges lifted with interest as he read. He put the instructions down and unfolded the material rectangle, holding it up in front of him to scrutinize the pattern.

_Strange_, he thought. _It appears to be some kind of Earth armor for cars_. He poked it with a forefinger. _But it's softer than metal. How could this be armor?_ His optics lit up. _Unless it's that kind that can stop bullets. That must be it._

Prowl smiled to himself, the proud owner of the new, exotic, alien armor. "How thoughtful," he nodded with approval, "how very thoughtful."

* * *

Optimus Prime scanned through the daily news log, looking for anything that might indicate Decepticon activity. The Ark's computer, Teletraan I, addressed the Autobot leader.

"Optimus Prime," the computer said in a clipped monotone, "A news report featuring Autobot Headquarters has been intercepted."

"Bring it up," Prime commanded with the flick of a finger.

The main screen repeated the broadcast. A reporter sitting behind a news desk told the story, "The latest question on everyone's mind is," she began, raising an eyebrow inquisitively, "exactly _who_ won the Powerball Max lottery, which was drawn last night? According to Powerball Max, the winning ticket was purchased electronically by someone at this address."

It was none other than Autobot Headquarters. The image of the back end of a golden orange space ship jutting out of the base of Mount St. Hilary – in the middle of the Oregon wilderness – filled the entire screen.

"How did they get that video clip?" Optimus Prime wondered aloud, stunned by the obvious security breach.

"Is this a legal win?" the reporter asked, sitting up tall. "After all, the Autobots are robots. Do they have an unfair advantage at picking lottery numbers? Oregon Lottery executives are holding an emergency meeting at this time, trying to answer that very question."

"That's enough, Teletraan," Optimus Prime said. "Turn it off and assemble the Autobots at once."

"Acknowledged," the computer replied flatly.

Optimus Prime pounded his fist into the palm of his other hand. "I'm getting to the bottom of this."

Autobots from all over the base hurried to the command center as ordered by their leader.

Prowl left his office and marched down the golden-orange, metallic hall to join the gathering of Autobots. An echoing clank of metal feet on the metal floor pounded in his audio receptors as an Autobot closed quickly on Prowl from behind. Gears rushed by. The red and blue minibot glanced across at the black and white military strategist to see Prowl wearing the new garment that he had received. Gears stumbled, distracted by the unexpected sight.

"Lookin' good there, Prowl," Gears chuckled with a thumbs up.

Prowl's expression suddenly became quizzical and he looked down over his chest plate at the armor covering his car body hood. Was Gears – who was known for his wealth of sarcasm and pessimism – actually giving him a compliment?

In the command center, Optimus Prime awaited his Autobots as they fell into line in front of him. Jazz, Bumblebee, Trailbreaker, Bluestreak, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were the first to arrive. Optimus Prime realized that something was wrong; the Autobots shuffled and bickered with one another.

Optimus slowly put his hands on his hip plates as he looked over the motley crew. The Lamborghinis had each replaced their Autobot crests with a garish yellow circle complete with a silly happy face. Jazz's blue stripes were repainted in loud rainbow colors, making the stylish saboteur look like he fit in better as a decoration in a little girl's bedroom, along with plush unicorns and dolls, than with a league of Autobot soldiers. Bumblebee was decorated with a home-made Decepticon insignia on his chest plate. A smaller enemy symbol was stamped onto the center of his helmet as well. Bluestreak had been branded with some kind of metallic fish symbol and Trailbreaker's head was incased in a glass bubble with springy antennae on top of it.

"What," the large commander barked in a heavy, authoritarian tone, "is going on here?"

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe halted their accusations and snapped to attention. Jazz uncrossed his arms and Bumblebee stood up straighter. Optimus Prime looked hard at each and every one of them. Trailbreaker shrugged apologetically.

"Relax, Optimus," Jazz soothed the tense atmosphere. "It's Christmas. The guys were just havin' a little fun with gifts."

"Fun?" Sideswipe scoffed.

"That criminal, Santa Claus, broke into our base," Sunstreaker declared with a snarl, "and attacked us." He hooked his thumb at the new symbol emblazoned across his chest plate. The ridiculous face smiled happily in stark contrast to the Autobot's fierce expression.

"I'm sure Santa didn't mean any harm," Trailbreaker said from underneath the glass sphere covering his head.

"Shut up, bubble head!" Sunstreaker and Sideswipe snapped in unison.

"Jazz!" Optimus Prime commanded. The bark silenced the Autobots. They all stood up straight and faced forward.

"Yes, Prime," came the clipped answer from the rainbow-striped lieutenant.

"Why did you paint yourself like this?" Optimus Prime wanted to know.

"I didn't do this, Prime," Jazz answered.

"Then who did?" Optimus Prime asked, his tone becoming agitated.

Underneath his blue triangular lens shield, Jazz's optical sensors glanced sidelong at the twins. "Sideswipe and Sunstreaker did it," he answered reluctantly.

Prime pointed at the twins. "So these practical jokes are your fault?"

"No way," they answered glumly.

"He made a joke about this," Sunstreaker admitted sourly, pointing to his happy face symbol, "so I gave him something to be happy about. It was fair."

Just then, Ratchet and Wheeljack arrived and fell into line, followed soon after by Gears, Cliffjumper, Hound and Ironhide. Their optics widened with surprise and Ironhide did a double take when he saw the Decepticon symbols on Bumblebee. Hound and Ratchet snickered.

"Permission to speak, Prime," the little yellow Autobot requested, raising his hand.

"Go ahead," Prime said.

"These are gag gifts," Bumblebee explained. "I know this," he added, pointing to the purple enemy logo on his forehead, "probably doesn't look like it should, but-"

"I want it removed," Optimus Prime commanded.

"Yes, Prime," Bumblebee agreed, hanging his head.

Optimus Prime looked at all of them. "Celebrating a holiday is one thing. But pretending to be the enemy – even if it is just a game – is not acceptable."

"Yes, Prime," the Autobots mumbled in a muted chorus.

The sound of running metallic feet echoed down the hallway. The Autobot leader to drummed his fingers on his hip plates as he waited for the straggler to join the ranks. Seconds later, Smokescreen burst into the room, slowing his pace as he jogged to the end of the line.

"Good of you to join us, Smokescreen," Optimus Prime began as he gazed at the line of Autobots, moving his attention slowly toward the defensive tactician. "I'm not keeping you from anything, am I?"

Optimus Prime's optics came to rest on Smokescreen. The tactician was decked out in vinyl decals of playing cards. The colorful, dynamic images would have appeared to dance down the length of his body, had he been in vehicle mode.

"Where did you get the new pattern scheme?" the Autobot leader inquired.

Smokescreen faltered for a minute. He glanced down the line of Autobots, and was perplexed but pleasantly surprised to find that the other Autobots had been decked out in their own lively décor. It was the perfect cover for an excuse, if he could only come up with one.

Jazz leaned forward as he exchanged a long look back at Smokescreen's modifications. "Lady Luck?" he read the decal running along the side of Smokescreen's foot.

Uncomfortable, Smokescreen moved his foot back, out of Jazz's view. He thanked Lady Luck that no one had noticed the fuzzy dice hanging from his rear riew mirror, or the new heated leather seats in the vehicle interior on his back.

"Where did you get that?" the lieutenant asked.

Optimus Prime stuck out the palm of his hand to silence Jazz's questioning. "I'll ask the questions. Smokescreen, where did you get that?"

"Um… uh," Smokescreen began haltingly.

"How come that Santa-con gave you something that matches with your paint job?" Sunstreak interjected.

Smokescreen seized on Sunstreaker's idea and wove a clever answer into the question.

"I don't know. I guess he knew what I wanted," Smokescreen responded with an oily grin.

"Enough, Autobots!" Optimus Prime warned them. "I called you all here to discuss a security breach." The tall red and blue leader looked around the room. "Now where's Prowl?"

The strategist answered from behind Optimus Prime. "Right here."

Prowl, his second-in-command, entered the room from the rear hallway and fell in next to Optimus Prime.

Immediately, the optics of the assembled Autobots locked onto the strategist, and grins crept onto their faceplates. A whistle hooted at Prowl from the line of Autobots, but neither Prowl nor Optimus Prime could tell who had the ventriloquist skills to make the noise.

Jazz bit his lip components and struggled to lock his optics on Optimus Prime, but Prowl's appearance was just too funny. He recoiled as a laugh bellowed out of him and he slapped the air. Before Optimus Prime could silence the outbreak, the other Autobots began to collectively lose their composure and joined in the laughter.

Optimus Prime glanced down at his strategist and spied the garb he was wearing. Stretched tightly across the headlights in his protruding chest plate was a black leather car bra.

"What is it?" Prowl demanded sternly.

"Prowl, man," Jazz began in the midst of a fit of laughter. "Do you have _any _idea what you're wearing!?"

Prowl looked crossly at the giddy Autobot lieutenant. Jazz was out of line. "This is Earth vehicle armor. It was a gift."

"You received a gift, too?" Optimus Prime asked with interest.

"From a human named Jimmy Bluestone," Prowl explained.

Bluestreak's expression went slack. He had forgotten to ask the department store to put his real name on the gift.

"Um, Optimus?" the gunner shyly raised his hand to speak.

"Not now, Bluestreak," the Autobot leader responded without looking at him.

"Prowl," Jazz wheezed with laughter, "that's not armor. It's a _car bra!_"

"A what?" Prowl asked, perplexed.

The laughter from the other Autobots gained a louder pitch. Optimus Prime leaned over toward Prowl with his hand next to his battle mask, adding quietly, "It's like an undergarment that human women wear on their, you know…" Optimus Prime outlined the truck windows in his torso with his index fingers.

Prowl was utterly confused. "How is that possible? Women and cars aren't even close to the same size. Why would they put something like that on a car? Cars don't have-"

Then Prowl got it. His optics widened with dismay as he looked down at the tight black "undergarment" stretched across the front of his protruding, bust-like chestplate and held in place with hooks.

He mustered all of his will to remain as calm and poised as possible despite the humiliation. "Optimus Prime," he stated, "permission to be excused."

"Permission granted," Optimus Prime excused him, hiding a tight grin under his battle mask. He dared not sound like he shared in the amusement.

Prowl promptly turned and strode away in military fashion back to his quarters to remove the car bra – and to figure out a way to regain his dignity.

Bluestreak watched him leave and felt bad. First he had spilled energon all over Prowl and then he had unwittingly embarrassed him. He respected Prowl and did not mean for any of this to happen. Now that the gift to make up for the energon accident had turned out to be a mistake, Bluestreak did not want to admit that he had given it. He just hoped that Smokescreen, the only other Autobot that knew of his alias, would not say anything. Anxiety swelled in his circuits as he listened to Optimus Prime.

"Autobots, your full attention!" the leader commanded.

The snickering and chortling trailed off and the Autobots stood at attention.

Optimus Prime continued, "The reason I assembled you here is because there has been a security breach."

The Autobots looked at one another with expressions of puzzlement and astonishment.

Optimus Prime pressed a button on the console behind him, and replayed the news report about the mysterious lottery winner on the large screen of Teletraan I.

"A news crew somehow approached Autobot Headquarters and took this picture," Optimus Prime stated, calling up a screen capture from the newscast. There was Mount St. Hilary and Autobot Headquarters, covered by a blanket of snow. "And in the middle of winter, no less. Not a single patrol reported anything – not even footprints."

"But it's cold outside," Gears protested. "Joints seize up when they get cold – and not to mention fogging optics."

Optimus Prime swept his gaze over the line of Autobots. "Is that your excuse?" the Autobot leader asked with disappointment in his vocalizer. "You're all too cold to be looking out for spies and Decepticons?"

The assembly muttered reluctantly in agreement.

"_Vector Sigma_," Optimus Prime uttered, tipping his head forward into one hand.

"Uh, Prime?" Trailbreaker began hesitantly. "I don't think the Decepticons are going to be any more interested in being out in the cold than we are."

"Stick a muffler on it, Trailbreaker," Jazz hushed the defensive tactician before he could get them into any more trouble with Prime.

Unsure what else to do, Trailbreaker shrugged as Optimus Prime looked upon the other Autobot soldiers.

"A patrol will be dispatched within the next cycle to determine if anyone is still out there lurking around the base," the leader informed them. "Gears, Bumblebee, Trailbreaker, Hound: you will report back your findings. But first, I want intel on the Powerball lottery. Someone knows something, and I expect to hear about it. Right here, right now."

Optimus Prime crossed his arms, waiting for a response.

Looking like he had been swatted, Bluestreak sheepishly raised his hand. "Optimus?"

"You, Bluestreak?" the Autobot leader asked with genuine surprise. Then he remembered Wheeljack's diagnosis about the distorted aura field and the chance that Bluestreak might be psychic. It made sense all of a sudden. "Did you help someone win the lottery?"

Bluestreak gulped. "No, well, yes. I mean no I didn't help, not _directly_, but maybe I might have possibly-"

Smokescreen leaned forward with bulging optics, staring hard at Bluestreak from the end of the line, but unable to say or do anything to silence Bluestreak without giving away his own involvement. Bluestreak glanced at the mortified gambler. His head sunk between his shoulders.

"What I'm trying to say is that no one else was involved." He gulped again, anxiety building in his circuits until he could not contain himself. "I did it. I picked those numbers and," he laughed uncomfortably, "I won." He smiled nervously. "Imagine that."

"That's incredible!" Wheeljack said, stepping forward.

"I know that maybe I shouldn't have done it," Bluestreak added quietly.

"He didn't win by guessing!" Wheeljack explained excitedly.

"Agreed," the Autobot leader acknowledged. "The chance of picking the correct numbers is remote."

"Hold on a sec," Jazz interjected, "just what's going on here?"

Wheeljack came forward and faced the others with an explanation. "Bluestreak's aura field was altered by that jolt from Shrapnel. It's been distorted so that his consciousness is spanning more than one time field."

"You lost me," Sideswipe said plainly.

"Being zapped by the Insecticon made Bluestreak here psychic," Wheeljack explained. "Although we suspected it, we needed evidence that it was really happening. He was not informed about his condition, allowing for an unbiased assessment of his ability."

Smokescreen's mouth dropped open. Would he lose exclusive use of his lucky Autobot?

"You mean he could tell us where Megatron or the Decepti-creeps are going to be?" Ironhide inquired with growing interest.

"Perhaps," Wheeljack answered.

Bluestreak was astonished at the assertion. "I can't do that!"

"What's the first thing that came to mind when Ironhide said that?" Wheeljack asked Bluestreak directly.

"Nothing," he said automatically, then realized that he had glimpsed a silly idea borne out of the anxiety of the moment.

"Nothing?" Wheeljack pressed him.

Bluestreak chuckled nervously. Clearly, Bluestreak had seen something that he was trying to hide.

"Tell us, Bluestreak," Optimus Prime demanded.

Ironhide impatiently pounded his fist into his other hand. "We can defeat Megatron! Tell us what he's up to."

"This is going to sound crazy," Bluestreak began. All optics were on him, eagerly awaiting his reading of the future. "Nothing about Megatron, but, uh… Devastator climbing a skyscraper."

Chuckles bubbled up from the line of Autobots.

"Psychic, _ptff!_" Ironhide spat. "Sounds like you've been watchin' too many cartoons."

"Sounds pretty cuckoo," Sideswipe said to his brother.

Bluestreak felt shamed by the laughter. But then he remembered the Brain Men. The idea seemed so visceral after the electro-bite. There _had _to be some truth to it.

"There _is_ something else," Bluestreak added shyly as the others continued to laugh.

"What is it?" Optimus Prime inquired.

"Alien invaders that turn Autobots into their machine slaves."

Both Trailbreaker and Jazz groaned.

"Not _that_ again!" Jazz exclaimed.

"You know about this already?" Optimus Prime asked, mildly surprised.

"Yeah, he's been goin' on about that for awhile," the black and white Autobot muttered.

"Tell us, Bluestreak," Optimus Prime demanded, "about these alien invaders."

Bluestreak perked up, glad that someone was interested in listening to his intuition about the Brain Men being real. He was careful, though, to explain his concern without referring to the alien invaders by their TV name, to ensure that the others took him seriously.

"There are these aliens that come from a dying world and are looking for a new place to inhabit," Bluestreak began, "and they come here with a technology to pilot robots' heads."

"Do you realize how absurd-?" Sunstreaker scowled.

Prime silenced the yellow warrior with an extended palm. "Continue," he told the psychic gunner.

"They get in your head," Bluestreak explained, pointing to his head.

Ratchet smacked the chevron on his helmet. "Oh _this!_" he groaned and looked at Wheeljack. "I thought he had gotten over this crazy idea."

"He did mention it right after the injury," Wheeljack suggested. "There could be something to it."

"I don't believe we're listening to this," Ratchet mumbled.

"Hey guys!" Bumblebee piped up. "Stop interrupting Bluestreak and let him finish."

"Thank you, Bumblebee." Optimus Prime nodded to the little yellow minibot.

"I thought that some of you guys might have already been taken over by the aliens," Bluestreak continued, "especially when I saw Cliffjumper pulling on his head yesterday."

Cliffjumper shook his head, trying to remember what Bluestreak was talking about. Then it came to him. Bluestreak had walked by when he was talking to Bumblebee and Gears. Cliffjumper laughed. "I wasn't losing my head to some crazy invader," the red minibot stated. "I was pulling on my horns because I was frustrated."

"Well," Bluestreaker sighed with relief, "everyone seems to be okay. No aliens here… at least not yet."

"So let me see if I have this right," Jazz summarized. "These aliens you're worried about, they're small?"

"Human-sized," Bluestreak clarified. "Actually, they look just like humans."

"So, they sit inside your head or somethin'?" Jazz checked.

"Yes!" Bluestreak answered emphatically. "And they control everything your body does!"

"Like a puppet master," Hound interjected.

"Or a _Headmaster_," Optimus Prime surmised coolly.

Everyone looked at the Autobot leader.

"You've heard of them?" Ironhide asked Prime.

"No," Optimus Prime responded matter-of-factly, "but the name _Headmaster_ seems to make sense."

"I just don't see how it's possible," Wheeljack countered. The Autobot engineer rubbed the chin of his face mask. "What would they do with all of the machinery in our heads? Like our sensors and brains?"

"I think the idea is that they terminate you, remove your head circuitry and components, and use your body as a vehicle," Ratchet suggested.

Bluestreak imagined the blinding flare of a cutting torch opening one of his friend's helmets as he lay still on an operating table. Then, robotic arms and tools descended to clean out the head cavity, pulling roughly on optical and audio sensors, severing vital connections and snapping cables from their ports as head contents were removed. A stream of energon oozed over the broken circuitry trailing from the claws of the manipulators. Bluestreak felt unsteady as the sickening imagery shifted his system voltage into a state of flux. His consciousness wobbled at the idea of becoming an undead tool of the Brain Men.

"Indeed," Optimus Prime agreed with Ratchet. "While I have trouble believing this, I do see evidence of this behavior toward machines in the human population of Earth. It is not impossible to imagine that another organic race might prey upon the Autobots. Bluestreak, when do you foresee the arrival of these aliens?"

Bluestreak gulped at the electronic shiver that tingled up his central column as he fought to re-balance his voltage. His energy regulation was weak, even with the bypass that Ratchet had installed.

"I don't know when," he answered. "I thought it was already happening. The aliens silently picking us off one by one, until we didn't know who was friend and who was foe."

Several Autobots tensed, eyeing their neighbors suspiciously.

Ratchet interjected. "I, for one, don't believe any of this silly Headmaster story." He crossed his arms. "You're getting worked up over something that nobody can prove."

"But he won the lottery by seeing the future," Bumblebee noted, optics wide with fear.

"So?" Ratchet said with disdain. "Does this mean everything Bluestreak says from now on is going to come true? He also saw Devastator climbing a skyscraper."

"Ratchet is right," Optimus Prime affirmed in a level tone. "We cannot tell how this vision of the future will affect us. There is no evidence that Earth has been visited by aliens that pilot robots, so there is nothing to fear."

Optimus Prime nodded to the four Autobots that he had selected to patrol for spies near their base. "Hound, Trailbreaker, Gears, Bumblebee: you are dispatched now. I want a report within the next cycle."

The four acknowledged their orders and started to leave the command center.

"Oh, and Trailbreaker," the Autobot leader stopped the tall, black Autobot, "take that thing off your head."

Trailbreaker removed the glass sphere from his head and carried it under his arm out of the room as he departed with the others. The remainder of the assembly stood before Optimus Prime: Smokescreen, Ratchet, Wheeljack, Ironhide, Jazz, Bluestreak, Cliffjumper, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.

Even after sharing his fears with the others, Bluestreak could not let go of the disturbing idea of the Brain Men. It gnawed at him. He needed more reassurance that everything would be alright.

"Prime?" the gunner asked shyly.

"What is it now?" Optimus Prime responded.

"Don't you want to start a guard or something to keep watch for the Brai-, I mean, alien invaders?" Bluestreak's voltage fluttered again as his anxiety rose.

"I am more concerned about Megatron and the Decepticons, Bluestreak," Optimus Prime told him, "and what to do with that sum of money you won." He changed the subject. "What exactly were you doing playing the Powerball Max lottery, anyway?"

Bluestreak glanced down the line of Autobots, letting his optics come to rest on Smokescreen as he wondered what he should say next.

He looked back at Prime. "Helping a friend?" he answered with a nervous grin.

"That's very noble," Optimus Prime nodded. "But such a large sum of money is more than one person needs."

Smokescreen quietly bristled. That jackpot was rightfully his, since he had bought the ticket in the first place. Besides, he still had a massive credit card bill from his bad horseracing bets.

"Why not give it to charity?" Jazz suggested.

"Why not?" Smokescreen interjected, wearing his best poker face. "Because Bluestreak won it, so it's his. Not ours. Let him decide."

"Or research," Wheeljack countered, ignoring Smokescreen.

"Research?" Bluestreak gulped. "Like to help fund technological development?"

"Sure, why not?" the engineer responded. He and Ratchet glanced at one another, nodding in agreement.

"That kind of development that could lead to humans controlling us like puppets," Bluestreak panicked, realizing that the winnings could be used to help bring about a nightmare scenario perpetrated by humans rather than aliens. "You can't do that!" He looked frantically between Wheeljack and Optimus Prime.

"Relax, Bluestreak," Ratchet tried to calm down the volatile gunner. "It's not like we're going to fund something like," the chief medical officer started, pausing to think of something highly unlikely, "finding ways to surgically implant human brains in robot bodies."

Bluestreak wheezed, sickened by the idea.

"Exactly," Wheeljack agreed with his friend. "You couldn't do that without implanting a system to circulate blood for the brain, and oxygen – and then they'd have to take in and expel nutrients some way. I imagine that would not be easy."

Bluestreak groaned, feeling his weakened voltage regulation system pulse in time with his surging fuel pump. _Blood in a machine?_ Images of fuel lines intermingled with throbbing tubes filled with the dark red organic fluid filled his mind. His voltage dipped dangerously low as anxiety overwhelmed his core systems.

Bluestreak unexpectedly tipped to one side and fell over, taking the energy bypass with him. The tank on top shattered when it hit the metallic floor, spraying energon everywhere.

"Oh, _slag!_" Ratchet cursed as he and Wheeljack leapt forward to help the stricken Autobot.

Optimus Prime and the others closed around Bluestreak.

"What happened?" Optimus Prime asked.

Ratchet glanced back over his shoulder as he detached the broken energy bypass. "He passed out. System energy got too low. I've got to get him to medical bay."

"Is his regulator ready?" the Autobot leader asked, stepping back to allow Jazz and Wheeljack to lift Bluestreak off the floor.

"It's getting close," Wheeljack said to Prime as he slung Bluestreak's right arm over his shoulder. Jazz held up Bluestreak's left side. "I can have it ready by tonight."

Ratchet hurried out of the room to prepare an operating station in medical bay.

* * *

A blurred world came into focus as Bluestreak's optics focused on medical equipment perched above his head. As his system booted itself back up, he rolled his head to one side. Ratchet was working nearby in the medical bay.

"What happened?" Bluestreak groaned.

"You passed out. We installed your new regulator while you were offline. No more energy bypass." Ratchet smiled.

"Really?" Bluestreak asked, snapping back to full awareness. He perched himself up on one elbow and felt his torso for abnormalities. The contour was smooth and flawless. There was neither a hole nor a hose running into his midsection.

He relaxed, just as the large double doors to the medical bay opened and Smokescreen entered.

Ratchet looked up with interest.

"I came to see how he was doing," Smokescreen explained.

Ratchet rummaged through some parts on a counter top and picked up something slender. "I'll be back shortly. I have an errand to run."

"Later, Ratchet," Smokescreen waved amicably.

He watched as the chief medical officer left and the doors closed, leaving him alone with the patient.

Smokescreen grinned at Bluestreak. "Thanks for not giving away our little betting ring back there, Jimmy."

"Ha, ha," Bluestreak laughed uncomfortably. "Speaking of that-"

"Right," Smokescreen interrupted Bluestreak. He pulled out a betting schedule concealed in a hidden compartment. "I wonder if you could do me a favor."

"I don't want to bet anymore," Bluestreak stated firmly. "No money of mine is gonna be used for research."

"Hey, no problem," Smokescreen soothed his fears. "They gave away my lottery winnings to a Christmas children's charity."

Smokescreen sighed heavily and sat down beside Bluestreak.

"This is really hard for me. That's why I have to ask you this one last favor," Smokescreen reached out and patted Bluestreak's shoulder, "to help me pay off my debt."

"I'm not gambling, Smokescreen." Bluestreak insisted as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the table.

"_Please?_" Smokescreen insisted, thrusting the schedule in front of Bluestreak. "You've got _the touch_."

The gunner laughed nervously but shook his head.

"C'mon, Bluestreak," Smokescreen pleaded with him. "I'm desperate here. Help an Autobot in need? It's Christmas."

Reluctantly, Bluestreak acquiesced and took the paper from Smokescreen.

"Just tell me which ones are lucky," the gambler said, a grin lighting up across his faceplate.

Bluestreak pointed out the first names that caught his attention and handed the slip back to Smokescreen. "There."

"Thanks, buddy." Smokescreen patted him on the shoulder and then turned to leave. "Oh," he stopped and turned back to Bluestreak. "Good to hear you're back to normal." He nodded. "Just as long as you don't go back to being your _old_ self, if you know what I mean."

Smokescreen gave a thumbs up and then left medical bay.

* * *

Bluestreak strolled into the lounge to see what was going on. Jazz, still sporting his rainbow stripes, was playing a game with Ironhide at one of the tables. Wheeljack, Cliffjumper and Bumblebee were watching a movie on one of the room's large screens. Wheeljack stood up when he saw Bluestreak come in.

Bluestreak waved. "Hey, aren't you missing your show?"

"Nah," Wheeljack greeted him. "Commercial break. How's the new regulator workin'?"

Bluestreak shrugged. "Seems to be okay."

"Good," the engineer said, a merry tone in his vocalizer. He lowered his voice. "I need to tell you something important. I did another scan of your aura field after the procedure – to check up on things – and it's gone back to normal now that your regulator is replaced."

Bluestreak's optic ridges lifted in surprise. "You mean… I'm not psychic any more?"

"According to the results of the test, no," Wheeljack confirmed.

Bluestreak sighed.

"Don't worry, Bluestreak," Wheeljack assured him. "You're fine the way you are."

"But what about the Headmasters?"

"I think we figured that part out, too," Wheeljack said, as if smiling under his face mask. "Come here and see this."

The engineer showed him to a seat in front of the television screen. Bluestreak sat down next to Cliffjumper.

"You're never gonna believe this!" Cliffjumper smiled at the gunner. "You _really_ could see the future. Check it out." The red minibot pointed at the screen.

The commercial break ended.

An army of mechanical giants, whose heads were piloted by aliens, battled the armed forces of Earth for control of the planet. It was a re-run of _The Brain Men from Gamma Centauri_.

Cliffjumper ribbed Bluestreak with his elbow. "You must have foreseen this movie being on TV. And this Lord Xangzar guy is hilarious, the _king_ of cheesiness." He relaxed back into the sofa, laughing heartily.

Bluestreak laughed nervously with him. He felt small and hot inside, but tried not to show it.

"Hey Bumblebee," the red minibot added. "Who would win in a fight? Lord Xangzar, piloting one of those robots, or Megatron?"

Everyone laughed.

"_I_ could beat him," Bumblebee giggled. "Just give me a cat."

"W-what are you talking about?" Bluestreak asked.

Wheeljack answered. "The Brain Men are allergic to cats. The aliens can be warded off like vampires by holding a cat out toward them."

"Really?" Bluestreak laughed. "That's really dumb."

_They aren't real, after all_. Relief washed over the gunner.

"It is like I've seen this before."

Bluestreak relaxed and watched the end of the Brain Men movie with the others, laughing all the way to the closing scene. Vanquished, the Brain Men left the Earth forever, and thoroughly entertained, the Autobots turned off the television.

* * *

The next day, Smokescreen came looking for Bluestreak with a long face and drooping door wings. Clearly, something was wrong.

"What happened?" Bluestreak asked him as the two met in the hallway.

"I lost everything," Smokescreen answered miserably. "Those horses you picked were no good. I bet _everything_ on them."

Bluestreak's optics popped wide. "Oh," he said, "that's right. Wheeljack said I'm not psychic anymore."

"What?!" Smokescreen spat in disbelief. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"I didn't know until after you asked me about the horses." Bluestreak explained, backing away. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean to make you lose."

Smokescreen put his head into his hands and made a miserable noise. "I'm _finished_. How am I going to pay this debt off now? I need something that I _know_ I can win at."

Smokescreen suddenly perked up as he remembered a late-night infomercial on how to buy and flip condos.

"I know! I'll bet on real estate! Everyone knows that real estate only goes up!" Grinning like a fool, the gambler was overjoyed at his newfound money-making scheme. "Why didn't I think of this before?"

Bluestreak regarded Smokescreen with a vacant smile.

"Thanks for the idea, Bluestreak!" He grabbed Bluestreak's hand and shook it vigorously.

The tactician hurried back down the hallway with a bounce in his step.

"Well," said Bluestreak as he checked his chronometer, "looks like it's time for Gilligan's Island."


End file.
